


Gods and Monsters

by Dr_Supernova_Dragon_Cat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Italian Mafia, Mafia AU, Masturbation, Mentions of Rape, Mild/Attempted sexual assault, Organized Crime, Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Verbal Abuse, Violence, mentions of sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:00:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 424,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dr_Supernova_Dragon_Cat/pseuds/Dr_Supernova_Dragon_Cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU. Mafia/organized crime AU. </p><p>Sansa Stark has lived a charmed life as the daughter of Portland’s District Attorney Ned Stark, famed for his campaign to bring the west coast’s most prolific mafia family to justice. One fateful night, as a storm rages over Portland, Sansa attends a lavish soiree held in honor of the city’s finest, where the powerful and wealthy have come to celebrate their status. Sansa encounters a mysterious man, unlike all the rest and to whom she is inexplicably drawn. When the festivities descend into a nightmare of chaos, Sansa is propelled into the dark underworld where this man is both god and monster and where an unlikely connection- both troubling and exhilarating- is forged between the two of them.</p><p>Dark and gritty realism balanced with an emotional expose of human connections, the complexities of good and evil, and the inevitability of fate, which proves to be an unstoppable force for all involved. </p><p>Warnings:  Please read the warnings at the beginning of each chapter. </p><p>Many thanks to my betas, mendedheart and riverlandsred, who do a superb job! Lots of love to Jia (wajuuniverse on tumblr) for creating the photosets accompanying each chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mendedheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mendedheart/gifts), [riverlandsred](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverlandsred/gifts).



 

 

                                               

"In the land of Gods and Monsters, I was an angel living in the Garden of Evil."

-Lana Del Rey

* * *

_A storm is coming. Of all times, the skies decide to open up tonight_.

From behind her mirror, Sansa could see the darkening sky through her open window. A steady column of blackened clouds were rolling across the western horizon, the air thick with static as it blew through the window, dancing amongst the gauzy drapes. With a disappointed sigh, Sansa stared at herself in the mirror, smoothing the fabric of her dress and tugging at the hem which fell mid-thigh.  _A bit too short. I really should change._

"You look pretty."

Sansa shifted her stare to the reflection in the mirror; the reflection of the woman she would undoubtedly become in twenty years or so. Her mother's thick auburn waves were a shade darker than her own, but beautifully framed the graceful features of her face, and her eyes shone a radiant blue, still glistening dreamily despite her age. All her life others had fawned over how Sansa favored her mother, an almost exact replica of the woman. And it was true. A faded, time-worn picture of her mother at eighteen years old was placed in the corner of Sansa's mirror. The similarities were uncanny, to say the least. As a little girl, Sansa would spend hours flipping through photo albums of her mother and father when they were younger. The woman in the pictures, her mother, was everything Sansa wanted to be: gentle-hearted, beautiful, a free spirit, and most of all, impossibly in love with her father and him with her.

"It's a little short."

Once more, Sansa struggled with the hem, conscious of how high it came up her thighs before pacing towards her closet with a frustrated sigh, flipping through the many dresses she owned for something a little less revealing.

With gentle hands, her mother came up behind her, delicately brushing her fingers through Sansa's hair and her voice softly reassuring.

"You look beautiful, my love. If it were too short, I would let you know."

Letting her hands fall to her side, Sansa walked once more in front of the mirror, tilting her head slightly as she evaluated herself.  _I guess it's not that bad. One night of being a little less conservative won't kill me…_

"Alright. If you say so. But if Dad puts up a fight, I'm telling him that you said it was okay."

Suddenly aware of time, Sansa let her eyes dart to the clock beside her bed before she turned to face her mother, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips and fading away as she once more looked towards the threatening sky outside her window.

"It looks like it's going to storm. We should get going or we'll be late."

Sansa looped her arm in her mother's as they retreated from her bedroom and out into the hall, their heels clicking against the hardwood floors as they walked.

"Is Dad coming tonight?"

With a languished sigh and an abrupt shake of her head, her mother disentangled her arm from Sansa's, wringing her hands together as she always did when troubled.

"No. It will just be you and I. Your father has been at his wit’s end preparing for the deposition for the witness in the Moriarti case. He wants to get some work done tonight."

Sansa gave a disappointed nod before letting her head hang, the understanding implicit. Since his brother's death, her father, Ned Stark, functioned as the district attorney in Portland, elected by voters to replace his older brother who was much loved by the public and much loathed by the west coast crime syndicates. The circumstances surrounding her uncle's death had been mysterious, to say the least.

The Moriarti mafia family had been untouchable for the past twenty years, according to her father. Money laundering, extortion, racketeering, loansharking, prostitution, and fraud were the least of it. Their influence expanded the length of the west coast, from Portland south to San Jose, California and dotted throughout the major cities in between. Since the Moriarti-Severelli alliance collapsed, the two families had been warring, the body count was steadily rising, and witnesses willing to testify were dropping like flies, many disappearing before their testimony could take place in court. Her Uncle Brandon had worked feverishly to convict the bosses of both crime families in hopes that by putting them away for life, the families would be splintered and crumble, forcing the crime and corruption of the city to come to an abrupt halt. Brandon Stark had been dreadfully wrong.

When the underboss of the Moriarti family was arrested and charged with multiple counts of racketeering and extortion, the back lash had been almost immediate. On a constant basis, Brandon was berated with a slew of death threats. Should he not revoke the sentence and drop the case, his demise had been guaranteed in graphic detail. Much like her father, Brandon was a man bound by honor and duty and refused to be intimidated. So the case proceeded, but not before six of the eight witnesses turned up in pieces, random body parts sent to the coroner, district attorney, and presiding judge's offices. The other two witnesses refused to go through with their testimony and had not been seen since, seemingly vanishing into thin air either by their own accord or by the influence of the Moriarti mafia.

Brandon's murder had only made Sansa's father that much more resilient, unwilling to let his brother's death be in vain. Quietly and for the past two years, her father had been building a case against the Moriarti family, bit by bit and as inconspicuously as possible. Could he hit them with the RICO act, every member associated with the Moriarti family and their crimes would be booked, tried, and locked away in prison for the remainder of their lives, essentially wiping out the organization. It was the largest and most high profile case the district attorney's office had ever pursued and had the ability to turn the entire city upside down, for better or for worse. For long days and even longer nights, her father worked tirelessly, often falling asleep at his desk, his head resting amongst stacks of testimonies, affidavits, crime reports, and the scribbling of his notes.

The case had taken its toll on him; he had aged ten years in the past two, or so it seemed. His eyes were constantly hooded with fatigue, the lines of his face had deepened, and his hair was beginning to gray. Sometimes Sansa would walk by his office and see him standing in front of the window, staring out at the thick blanket of woods that surrounded their home. For long moments, he would stand at the window, unmoving with his arms folded behind his back and lost in his thoughts a thousand miles away.

As she approached his office, Sansa found him this way, staring off into the distance as the trees swayed with the wind and his secret thoughts and worries churning in his head, as unsettled as the storm brewing outside. With a light rapping at his door, Sansa cleared her throat before hesitantly stepping into his office.

Turning his head over his shoulder, her father's face met her with a disapproving scowl.

"Sansa. That dress is...a bit revealing, don't you think?"

Suddenly self-conscious once again, Sansa looked down at herself.  _I could have guessed as much. I should have changed…_

"Myranda let me borrow it for tonight. Mom said I looked beautiful."

The mini dress was a bit short; she already knew that. She was bustier than her friend and couldn't help that the fabric pulled tightly across her chest, revealing a soft curve of cleavage. If she tugged at the neckline of the dress, it rose up higher on her legs. If she tugged at the hemline, it pulled the dress down, revealing more cleavage. Undoubtedly, she would be playing an endless game of tug-o-war for the evening.

Removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes, her father turned towards her before crossing his arms about his chest.

"You do look beautiful. That's part of the problem. You're too pretty for your own good. And I can't imagine Myranda's father lets her leave the house in outfits like that. What do you think? Hmm?"

Sansa let her eyes fall away. She hated feeling as though she disappointed him, but she had come to hate feeling as if she was still a child even more. She had already graduated high school, was accepted to the University of Oregon with a full ride, and would be starting college in a few short months. By almost all definitions, she was an adult.

"Dad, I don't know. I don't think Myranda's dad really cares."

Her voice came out a whining huff as Sansa shifted her weight from one foot to the other and crossed her arms tightly around her waist, unwittingly letting her frustration show.

Myranda's father, Nestor Royce, had agreed to be a litigator in her father's case. Nestor and Ned had attended law school together and subsequently interned at the same law firm in San Francisco. It was always assumed the two would open a firm together; with her father's sensibilities and dedication and Nestor's charisma and persuasiveness in trial, the two would have been unstoppable. However, Nestor had taken a job at a high-profile firm in Portland, and her father took a job as the county prosecutor. Since then, their families had become close friends; their daughter, Myranda, becoming Sansa's dearest friend as the two grew up alongside one another.

Named one of the top litigators of the state, Nestor Royce had gained much publicity for the progress he had made in cases relating to the Severelli crime family. He had successfully put away two of the underbosses and a handful of street bosses from various cities. Nestor had suffered the same threats on his life; empty threats that were never followed through on. Perhaps it was his presence in the media or how well connected the man was, but Nestor Royce had relentlessly and successfully pursued the Severelli family, remaining unscathed and untouchable in his own right.

Every year, the Royce's organized a gala for the district attorney's office, as well as higher up city officials. Having come into great wealth, the party was always held at Nestor Royce's estate in Lake Oswego, a suburb outside of Portland. Every lawyer, politician, and socialite of Portland attended the lavish event. Truly, the Royces spared no expense for the annual fete; a team of chefs from each exclusive restaurant in Portland were brought in to create the many decadent dishes that were served, string quartets were set up on each of the three floors of their sprawling Victorian-style home. Even an interior decorator was hired to transform their home for the event. In recent years and given the impending Moriarti case, the party had become invitation only, and private security was hired.

Relenting, her father circled around his desk to stand in front of Sansa, placing his hands heavily on her shoulders.

"Well, I'm your father, and I'm just concerned is all."

Sansa couldn't help but smile. As he rested his weight against his desk, she could see the concern gleaming in his eyes. Ever since she was a little girl, he had always been over protective of her. When she was a freshman in high school, a senior boy had asked her to prom. She had come home bursting through the door and squealing with excitement. As Sansa and her mother instantaneously began planning what her dress would look like, how she would do her hair and make-up, her father stood silently with the same disapproving scowl before going into a stern lecture about how all boys only want one thing at that age, followed by a slew of prom night horror stories that surely never happened to anyone.

With some time and convincing by her mother, he had finally relented, but not before eagerly volunteering as a parent chaperone for the dance. The entire night he watched only her, his face turning red with anger when her date let his hands travel too far down her waist. As the last song played, her father cut in, pushing her date aside while mumbling some excuse about wanting the last dance with his daughter. Irritated and offended, her date threw his hands up in the air and left with some other girl. Sansa cried the entire way home, furious and refusing to speak to her father, turning her body as far away as possible and keeping her stare out the car window.

That was so long ago, it seemed, and as she reflected back on the event, Sansa realized how petty she had been and how truly lucky she was to have a father care for her as much as hers did. Sansa adored her father and how protective he was of her. Only recently had she truly come to appreciate how he looked out for her, worried about her, and did everything in his power to give her a happy life.

Letting her frustration melt away, Sansa nodded her head and rested her hands on top of her father's.

"I know you're concerned about me, and that's why I love you. But I'm not a little girl anymore. I'll be eighteen in a few weeks."

With that, Sansa made her way towards her father's desk, sighing as she saw the myriad of papers strewn about in haphazard stacks. Delicately, she picked up a stray piece of paper and scrutinized it.

"How is the case coming?"

With a groan, her father turned towards his desk, contemplating the stacks of folders and papers with a pained look.

"I don't know, Sansa. I feel like I take two steps forward and one step back. It just doesn't make any sense. This guy, the Moriarti boss, there's literally nothing on him. For the past two years, all my leads on him have been dead ends. Even the witnesses know nothing about the guy or else they're just not talking. It's as if he's a ghost, moving through the shadows. No one has a name on him. Moriarti can't be his true name; that much we do know. I have no idea where he operates from. Hell! For all I know, he could be based in a different city, state, or even country, just calling the shots from behind a desk. Everything surrounding this guy is a mystery."

Her father tossed his fountain pen on the desk where it bounced against a worn, coffee stained manila folder stuffed full of papers with torn edges. With a deep, frustrated sigh, her father ran his fingers through the thick waves of his salt-and-pepper colored hair.

Sansa could scarcely imagine his frustration. She had heard the stories of the Moriarti boss; if not from her father, Myranda would divulge the details, giggling like an idiot and with eyes wide as saucers. It seemed Nestor was more open with the particulars of the case than her own father. Little was known of the Moriarti boss besides the fact that his men referred to him as the Hound. Some said he garnered the name due to his notorious brutality and ruthlessness. Others claimed it was because of how loyal his men were to him and him to them.

Beyond that, the only other detail the district attorney's office had was that the Hound had to be young, late twenties or so. He had probably inherited the position from family or perhaps had gained enough respect within the organization that he was eventually promoted to the top position of the Moriarti mafia. The man was calculated, meticulous, and intelligent, having dodged the authorities and DA office for so long. The city had become corrupt; major corporations were intricately involved with the Moriarti crime syndicate, and high ranking city officials and law enforcement officers were being paid off for turning a blind eye to the illicit activities occurring in the criminal underworld.

Sansa gave her father a reassuring smile before softly taking his hands into her own. From outside, the grumbling of thunder groaned loudly, vibrating through the walls of their home.

"I'm sorry, Dad. Something will turn up eventually. It  _has_  to. He can't hide forever. I'm sure he'll show up where you least expect him."

With a half smile cracking across his lips, her father wrapped an arm around her shoulder and kissed her softly on the forehead before nodding his head.

"Thanks, sweetheart. One can only hope."

As her father let her go and walked around his desk, taking his seat once more in front of the heaping pile of papers, Sansa sensed his reluctance to return to his work.

"Mom said you're not going to make it to the Royce's party tonight. Can't you spare just a little time to come? It might do you some good to get away for a few hours. After all, you  _are_  the DA and the party is partially held for the district attorney's office, so…"

Sansa let her words drift away, the meandering inflection of her voice baiting him to relent to her subtle insistence. By the furrowing of his brow, she could tell he was contemplating the option: the opportunity to put aside his work for a bit and actually have a little fun for once. But ever the dutiful lawyer, her father shook his head, the regret lingering despite his soft smile.

"I really wish I could. But I'm going to have to bow out for tonight. This deposition has to go as planned, or else I'm back to square one. But you and your mother go and have fun."

Swiveling in his seat, her father turned his stare out the window behind him, contemplating the darkening sky which was rippled with lightening from somewhere far off in the distance. The trees were beginning to bend against the constant assault of the wind, which was picking up stronger with each passing hour.

"A storm's coming. By the looks of it, it's going to be a nasty one. You and your mother, be careful. And that's an order."

A playful smile spread across his face as he jokingly wagged his finger at her, eliciting a giggle to bubble up from within her.

"Yes, Sir."

Sansa kissed her father on the cheek before hurriedly retreating from his office and heading down the stairs, taking her steps as quickly as her legs would carry her without tumbling over her heels.  _Flats. I should have worn flats. Longer dress, shorter shoes._

Stepping into the kitchen, Sansa found her mother seated at the table, intently watching the weather radar while biting her lip. Laughing to herself, Sansa waved her arms in front of the television, rousing her mother's attention.

"I'm ready if you are."

With a sigh and a smile, Sansa's mother pushed herself from the table and grabbed the car keys from their hook, letting them tumble from one hand to the other.

"It's supposed to storm later tonight. A bad storm too. I hate driving in the rain."

Cocking her head to the side, Sansa extended her hand with the other rested firmly on her hip. She knew her mother too well; the woman's hinting around at what she wanted was thinly guised and fooled no one.

"If you want me to drive, you could've just asked. Give me the keys."

The air outside was thick with humidity, sticky against Sansa's skin and causing her hair to curl into soft waves. She could sense her mother's hesitation as the sky above was blanketed with angry black clouds, and lightening broke across the horizon followed by deafening claps of thunder.

Sansa tried to ease her mother's worried mind, cheerfully speculating as to what sorts of food would be served at the party, placing bets on who would get more intoxicated, Mr. or Mrs. Royce, and discussing the highlights of last year's party. It seemed they were heading into the storm; halfway through their drive, the wind picked up fiercely, lashing against the car and conspiring to toss it off the road. With her hands wrapped firmly around the steering wheel, Sansa drove the rest of the way in silence, her knuckles turning white and a strange sense of foreboding growing in the pit of her stomach as they neared their destination.

As they pulled up to the gate of the Royce estate, a line of cars were stopped in front of them, each handing their invitation to a security guard posted at the gate who gave the invitation a brief glance before passing the car through. Once the cars ahead of them were waved on, Sansa approached the security guard, rolling down her window.

"Your names?"

The man's abruptness startled her. With arms crossed, he barely looked at her, but instead looked back at the line of cars behind them.

"Sansa and Catelyn Stark."

The man's head snapped back towards her as she shuffled through the contents of her purse for the invitation. From the periphery of her vision, she could see the security guard eagerly peering into the car, evaluating both her and her mother intently.

As Sansa handed him their invitation, the man stared callously at her, his face unreadable, yet making her entirely uncomfortable all the same. By the way her mother was shifting in the passenger seat, she surmised he elicited the same reaction from her, as well.

The security guard set his stare at each of them in turn, as if memorizing the features of their faces, before waving them through. With a nervous laugh, her mother turned around in her seat, watching as the security guard waved the cars behind them through without so much as a second glance.

"What was that all about?"

With no insight to offer, Sansa shrugged her shoulders. Perhaps it was the electricity hovering in the air or the way the security guard had seemed to linger over them, but Sansa felt a heaviness beginning to press against her. Her stomach began to burn as they pulled up to the valet waiting at the top of the hill.  _Something about this night feels off._

An olive skinned boy, no older than her, with a mop of thick, black hair jogged up to the driver side door. As Sansa pushed the car door open, the boy extended his hand to her with a shy smile.

"Ma'am. Welcome to the Royce residence."

Sansa had barely heard the boy as her eyes were instantly drawn to the sight of the house in front of her. Mrs. Royce had it built as an exact replica of a gothic-revival mansion she once saw during her travels to England. As a child, Sansa thought the Royce's house looked like something from a dream, a life-size dollhouse she could roam around in. And roam she did. For hours, she would wander around the mansion and out in the gardens, pretending she was a listless princess in some English manor, waiting for her prince to come. Tonight, however, the house was more breathtaking than she had ever seen it before.

Garlands of peonies were wrapped around the railings and pillars of the half dozen porches situated throughout the front of the house, swathing it in soft floral hues of white, purple, red, and pink and filling the air with their scent. The path to the front of the house was lined with a dozen tall candelabras, each radiating a sphere of flickering light around them. Each of the bay windows were illuminated with gas lamps, beautifully lending their light to the vintage ambiance the house was so effortlessly exuding. Over the booming of thunder, Sansa could hear the gentle plucking sounds of a harp, filling the air with a lovely yet mournful song.

As they entered the house, the foyer was aglow with the soft, shifting light of the crystal chandelier above. The rooms adjacent to the foyer were filled with the murmuring of people exchanging jovial conversations. Heavenly scents wafted through the air as dozens of waiters with trays of food navigated through clusters of people, stopping here and there to explain what foods their tray featured.

With a girlish smile spreading across her rouged lips, Sansa's mother turned to her with eyes wide and her voice breathy and giggling.

"My goodness! This is even bigger than last year's party. Let's go find Myranda and her mother."

Sansa and her mother eased their way through a crowd of people gathered around one of the many cocktail bars that had been set up throughout the house. Stepping into the parlor, they found Charlotte Royce animatedly regaling a group of women about her recent trip to the Italian Riviera, her arms moving through the air as her excited voice bounced throughout the room between sips of wine.

Where her mother was demure, soft-spoken, and modest, Charlotte Royce was vivacious, ostentatious, and wholly enchanted by all forms of luxury, which her husband had happily provided her. A luminous smile swept across Charlotte's face as her eyes wandered over in Sansa and her mother's direction. As the woman waved her arms in the air, the wine went sloshing from her glass, splattering to the floor.

"Catelyn! Sansa! Over here…god damn it! I've been spilling this shit all night."

Charlotte extended her arms and shuffled over, her sequined dress glittering as she moved. The heavy scent of the woman's perfume lingered on Sansa even after the woman planted a kiss on each of her cheeks. Charlotte lifted the locks of Sansa's hair from off of her shoulder, working the strands through her fingers and standing back, seemingly to admire her.

"You, little darling, get more beautiful by the day! Who would've thought that the knobby kneed, gawky little red headed girl I used to know would turn into such a knock out. And yes, that is absolutely a compliment! Myranda is here somewhere."

Charlotte looped her arm in Sansa's mother's, whisking her away and chattering excitedly as she waved over a waiter with a tray of chardonnay.

"I am so happy you're here. I was just telling the gals about my trip to Italy. Oh my God, Cat, it was divine! Wine, you need wine, and I need wine, and then we need to catch up! I have  _so_  much to tell you."

Watching as the women fluttered off, Sansa smiled to herself, doting on how different they really were, but friends nonetheless. That difference was echoed in Sansa's friendship with Myranda. Even as a little girl, Myranda had always been outgoing, the center of attention who eagerly sought the adoration of those around her. Sansa had been drawn to Myranda's charisma and effervescence, which foiled Sansa's own shyness and cautiousness.

When they were six, Myranda had convinced Sansa to climb the tree in the front yard of her house. Skillfully and with ease, Myranda had climbed to the top, triumphantly declared herself the Queen of the World, and then effortlessly climbed back down, swinging from limb to limb as she went.  _'See how it's done? Now it's your turn, Sansa.'_ Hesitantly, Sansa climbed the tree, her legs wobbling and her hands shaking like a leaf. Once at the top, Sansa had burst into tears, scared witless at the impending descent. Patiently, Myranda waited at the bottom of the tree, methodically and commandingly instructing Sansa on how to get down and encouraging her with each step. When Sansa finally reached the bottom and once again had her feet planted firmly on the ground, she had let out a sigh of relief and decided then and there that Myranda was her best friend. Since then, the two had been inseparable, as close as sisters.

"Oh my God, Sansa! You look  _fucking_  amazing!"

Spinning on her heel, Sansa found Myranda pacing hurriedly towards her, her dress shifting about her swaying hips and her brown curls bouncing with each step. Sansa had thought her dress was short, but Myranda's was at least three inches shorter and her heels two inches taller. Where Sansa's dress flowed easily over her curves, Myranda's clung tightly to her body. The girl was shorter than Sansa and a bit thicker too, but carried herself with a confidence that exuded her sexuality. Myranda had developed much quicker than the other girls. By seventh grade, she had a set of full breasts, and a subtle curve of her hips had begun to emerge. Much to the chagrin of the other girls, the boys were quick to take notice, and in turn Myranda was quick to lap it up, eager for the attention, even if the intentions were less than admirable.

Once developing, Myranda had been quick to explore her sexuality. When she lost her virginity at the age of fifteen, Myranda confided in Sansa, sparing no detail of the experience despite Sansa's urging to forgo the graphic retelling. When Sansa asked if she planned on ending up with the boy who took her virginity, Myranda laughed hysterically, clutching her side with tears rolling down her cheeks. Disbelieving, Myranda had asked if Sansa truly meant to wait to have sex until she found her 'prince', some perfect man who would fall desperately in love with her and her with him. In her naiveté, Sansa did not understand what was so outlandish about that thought. After all, her parents shared that sort of love. If they could find it, why couldn't she? From that day, Myranda had dubbed her with the nickname 'Alice,' a nod to the head-in-the-clouds girl from _Alice in Wonderland_ , who Sansa seemed to emulate.

With an approving smile plastered to her face, Myranda circled Sansa, looking her up and down.

"Look at you! I never knew you had such amazing legs. You need to show them off more. And of course, your tits look great. They always do, though."

With a sigh, Myranda pulled down the neck line of her dress and pushed up on her breasts before shrugging her shoulders.

"I wish mine were bigger. Ah well, I've got the great ass. I guess that counts for something."

Flashing a warm smile and giving a soft giggle, Sansa gave Myranda a hug before releasing her hold and tugging at the hemline of her mini dress, once more becoming self-conscious and internally chiding herself about not changing.

"Thanks. You look beautiful as well. You don't think it's too short?"

Myranda rolled her eyes before sweeping them across the room of people, contemplating the men dressed in suits and ties as a devilish smile formed about her lips.

"Oh, my dear Alice. There's no such thing as a dress that's too short or heels that are too high. Plus, I do believe you are drawing the attention of almost every man in this room."

Feeling her cheeks warm with a slight blush, Sansa darted her eyes about the room. Most of the men at the party were her father's age, and each strutted about the room with self-importance and pompousness oozing out of them. Wrinkling her nose with a look of disgust, Sansa turned back towards her friend.

"Don't say that! They're so…old."

With a shrug of her shoulders and flip of her hair, Myranda took Sansa by the hand and led her through the room of people.

"Podrick is in the other room. He was asking if you were going to be here. The boy can barely contain his hard-on for you. Plus, his entire family is out of town for the weekend. Are you sure you aren't interested in him?"

Laughing, Sansa playfully nudged her friend. She was used to Myranda's crassness and knew she truly meant well. Podrick Payne was Myranda's neighbor, a shy boy who carried himself with as much awkwardness as anyone Sansa had ever met. When they were eight, Myranda introduced Sansa to Podrick. Many months later and with the encouragement of Myranda, Podrick had built up enough courage to ask Sansa if, when they were older, she would marry him and allow him to die happy. Later, Myranda confessed that she had told Podrick the right words to say, and that the poor boy had been mustering up the courage to ask since the day he had met Sansa. Not realizing this at the time, Sansa had gingerly and graciously declined his offer, telling him that she was promised to a prince. With defeat gleaming in his eyes, Podrick had smiled anyway before shoving his hands in his pockets and retreating off, but not before saying  _'I hope you find your prince, Sansa.'_

Many years later, Sansa had asked Podrick if he remembered any of it. Her question was met with a firm denial, but Sansa knew he remembered, just as much as she did. Since then, he had become a dear friend to her and Myranda. Sansa knew he retained the same affection for her as he did when they were younger. She loved him truly, but not in the same way he had come to love her.

Tugging at her arm and pulling Sansa from her reverie, Myranda led them into the great room, pushing through clusters of people with a steady rotation of 'excuse us' and 'pardon me’. Truly, there were more people at the party than in years past, a sea of faces Sansa scarcely recognized.

The great room of the Royce mansion was the true focal point of the house, the word 'great' a sore understatement. Open to the floor above, the room boasted marble floors and twin chandeliers whose tear-drop crystals glimmered like diamonds against the ornately carved wooden beams from which they were hung. Along two sides of the room, the hallways up above were open to the great room below, save a series of arches and hand-carved wood railings. At the far end of the room, floor to ceiling windows flanked an ornate fireplace and looked out to the lake whose waters were rippling with the wind. A number of couches and chairs were arranged about the room, separating it into two halves. On the far end of the room, an older man in a tuxedo was seated at the grand piano, filling the air with soft music which battled against the thunder reverberating throughout the house. On the opposite end of the room, a winding staircase led to the open hallways above, the iron spindles set in dark mahogany wood.

The room was dimly lit by the chandeliers above, as well as a series of candelabras placed at various points about the room. Flashes of lightening were coming more frequently and illuminating the subtle, dusky darkness. As thunder roared outside, the chandeliers above swayed slightly and the house groaned against the wind.

The room was astir as people shuffled throughout, exchanging greetings or engaging in heated discussions about business, sports, or politics. Merry laughter filled the air and mingled amongst the sounds of the piano before being blotted out by thunder. Waiters meandered about, carrying trays of champagne or hor d'oeuvres, steadying their trays as people eagerly grabbed items off as they passed.

Finally finding a pocket of space, Sansa slid along the wall and perched herself against it, avoiding the shifting clusters of people who were moving about the room. Grabbing a glass of champagne as a waiter scurried by, Myranda eased next to Sansa's side, shrugging her shoulders innocently as Sansa shot her a chiding stare.

"Oh God, Sansa! Don't look so offended. It won't kill you to loosen up a bit."

A part of Sansa knew Myranda was right. The other part of Sansa was afraid to admit it– afraid to let herself go, in fear that she might lose herself forever. And buried underneath it all, tucked deep away, was a part of Sansa that  _wanted_  to lose herself, to do at least one reckless thing in her life and free fall into the darkness, down the rabbit hole into another world.

A group of people standing in front of her cleared away, opening her vision to the other half of the room. Sansa's attention was drawn to a man seated on a plush couch situated across the room– his legs open and one arm casually draped over the back of the couch, the other resting in his lap with a cocktail in hand. The other men moseying about the room were stuffed into designer suits, expensive ties wrapped tightly around their necks. However, this man was different; he wore a white dress shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing muscled forearms, the top three buttons unfastened, his black tie undone and draped around his neck.

Where the other men pompously sauntered about with heads held high in arrogance, this man remained seated, silently evaluating the room with one corner of his mouth pulled up in a half smile. Perhaps his most distinguishing feature was the scars that covered the left side of his face. Starting at his forehead and extending halfway down his cheek, the skin of his face was a gnarled tangle of flesh. Strands of his shoulder length, raven colored hair covered the worst of his scars. The right side of his face was entirely masculine, framed by a sharp jaw line and high cheekbones. His nose was hooked, and his eyes glimmered grey as stainless steel.

Something about the man captivated Sansa, his presence such a dichotomy to the rest of the men at the party. Where they feigned their confidence and masculinity, this man exuded his. To his right sat another man, similarly underdressed and watching the room, every now and then leaning in and exchanging words. Adjacent to the couch, one more man sat in an arm chair puffing on a cigar, his elbows resting on his knees as he set his glare about the room.

Seemingly feeling her eyes on him, the man shifted his gaze to her, stifling her breath and causing her heart to pound steadily in her chest. She expected the man to look away– for his eyes to pass over her and roam about the room as they had been. Instead, he fixed his stare, lowering his head and lifting his drink to his lips, but keeping his eyes glued to her. Unable to maintain the stare, Sansa let her eyes flutter away and felt the skin of her cheeks beginning to burn as she blushed uncontrollably.

Breathless despite standing still, Sansa turned towards Myranda who had already gulped down her champagne and was swaying slightly with drunkenness.

"Who is that?"

Sansa winced as Myranda snapped her head over her shoulder, her eyes landing directly on the man.  _Subtly is lost on her…_

"Mmm. That guy there? Does it matter? He's eye fucking you like crazy, Sansa."

Myranda turned her body towards the man, her back flush against the wall as she lifted her champagne glass so that it rested between her breasts. Despite Myranda's attempt at a seductive stance, the man kept his eyes intent on Sansa. Feeling a wave of heat move through her body, Sansa shook her head.

"Don't say that! He is not. Seriously, have you seen him before?"

Dropping her arm to her side and turning back towards Sansa, Myranda leaned her weight against the wall, her left knee buckling slightly as she momentarily lost her balance.

"Oh calm down! You're such a god damn prude. No, I think I'd remember if I'd seen him before. I imagine he's some big shot lawyer out of law school, looking to kiss enough ass tonight to land a job."

Somehow Sansa highly doubted that. The way the man composed himself suggested he was a man of power and influence. He carried himself with an assuredness that resonated from his body. If anything, people would be seeking him out tonight, not the other way around.

With her words slightly slurring off her tongue, Myranda turned her glance back towards the man.

"Even with his scars he's kind of hot…got that dark and brooding thing going for him. Not to mention, he has an amazing body. Mmm…and he looks to be tall too. You should talk to him!"

Huffing out a laugh and smiling nervously, Sansa shook her head adamantly, feeling her heart beat hard at the thought.

"And say what? 'Hey! I saw you eye fuc…" Embarrassed, Sansa let her voice drop off before beginning again. "'I saw you looking at me from across the room.' No. I think I'm okay."

Myranda shrugged her shoulders before pushing herself from the wall, her cheeks flushed from the champagne.

"Suit yourself. If I were you, I'd go for it. For right now though, I need another drink. I'll be back."

With an impish smile, Myranda sauntered away, leaving Sansa standing against the wall as she shyly let her eyes avoid the direction of where the man was sitting. From the periphery of her vision she could see that he was watching her, evaluating her as his focus remained solely on her and her alone despite the dozens of people moving about the room.

The other man sitting to his right leaned over and whispered something in his ear as he shot a fleeting look at Sansa. Still the scarred man kept his stare on her, intently eying her as he sipped on his drink. She knew not what the other man told him, but it beckoned his lips to curve into a mischievous smile, his eyes dark and lustrous as he slowly nodded his head.

Sansa felt her heartbeat quicken and her knees beginning to shake with weakness. She squirmed under his stare, but found herself utterly entranced by it, unable or perhaps unwilling to move. Something about his eyes on her sent shivers throughout her body. She relished the feeling until his attention turned to a woman who seated herself to his left. The leggy blonde wore a dress that made Myranda's look like a nun's habit in comparison; skin-tight, plunging neckline, backless, and barely covering her ass, the dress was tasteless at best. Leaning into him and pushing her breasts up against his side, the woman brushed her fingertips along his bare forearm.

Sansa let her eyes fall away, feeling her cheeks burn as she saw from the periphery of her vision as the man brushed the woman's long, blonde hair from off her shoulder. In an obnoxiously overt display, the woman bit her lip and gave out an audible gasp as he brushed his lips against her ear. Sansa stifled a laugh.  _You've got to be kidding me. I didn't realize women actually acted like this._

After the man whispered something in her ear, the woman abruptly pulled away, her mouth agape as she gathered her purse and lifted herself from his side, shooting him a furious glare. As she stood up, the man lifted his glass to the woman and curtly nodded his head, a mocking gesture which only infuriated her more and sent her stomping off across the room.

Wide-eyed and amused, Sansa watched the woman push through clusters of people, shoving them out of her way as she muttered expletives under her breath. She knew the man had resumed watching her; she could feel his eyes on her, threatening to burn her alive under the heat of his stare. As Sansa let her eyes flutter towards him, he was indeed watching her still. In one regard, she felt as if she was on display for him; something for him to stare at lustily. Much to her surprise though, she found that she liked it, and her body was responding, emanating heat from her skin and her breaths coming ragged from her trembling lips.

The scarred man shifted his stare to the man seated on his right, talking in hushed tones whilst motioning his head towards the staircase adjacent to them. Without hesitation, the man to his right lifted himself to his feet and headed towards the stairs, but not before eying Sansa coldly. Two more men followed behind him, each keeping their eyes straight ahead and their faces stoic as stone as they ascended the stairs.

As the scarred man lifted himself to his feet, Sansa saw how tall he really was; he towered over everyone around him and had to be well over six feet tall, closer to seven feet, most like. Beyond that, he was muscled like a bull, his thick arms emanating from broad, heavy shoulders.

Sansa felt her breath quicken and her heart race as he cast his gaze once more towards her, his eyes softening a bit and the scarred side of his mouth twitching ever so slightly.  _Oh God. What if he comes over here? What the hell am I supposed to say?_

Sansa felt her heart begin to beat furiously against her chest and her head become dizzy. To her simultaneous relief and disappointment, the man didn't come to her, but instead finished his drink in two gulps before setting it down hard on the table and heading for the stairs in striding steps.

"Sansa? Are you feeling okay?"

Startled, Sansa jumped and turned to find Podrick standing behind her, his hands in his pockets and uncomfortably shifting from one foot to the other. His hair, which was normally a shaggy mess that fell into his eyes in loose curls, had been smoothed back, easily revealing the boyish features of his face. With her heart beat slowing a bit, Sansa let out a deep sigh to steady her breath.

"Hey Pod. No…I mean, yes. Yes, I'm fine. You look really nice. I like what you've done with your hair. How's everything going?"

Blushing slightly, Podrick ran his fingers through his hair and laughed nervously.

"Oh, yeah. My mom said I should get it out of my face. Things are alright, I guess. I got roped into a conversation with Mr. Mormont about football. I told him I didn't know anything about football. He responded by telling me  _everything_ he knew about it. Did you know that the Detroit Lions are the only non-expansion NFL team never to go to the Super Bowl? Whatever that means…"

As Podrick began to ramble, Sansa unwittingly let her eyes drift towards the stairs and the landing at the top of the stair case, lost in a daze and searching out the man who had somehow captured her attention in such a short amount of time.

"Hmm. Yeah. Well, that's interesting." Mindlessly, the words left her lips while her focus and her eyes remained fixed on the stair case.

"Sansa, are you sure you're okay? You seem distracted."

Instantly, she was roused from her musings and turned towards Podrick, taking his hands into her own and smiling softly before her mind drifted again despite her willing it not to.

"I'm sorry. No I didn't know about the whole Detroit Lions thing. Stay here, Pod. I'll be back in just one second, I promise."

Much to her own surprise, she felt compelled towards the stairs, her legs moving without her consent and carrying her across the room, shifting through the crowd. Sansa ascended the stairs, her eyes searching the upper balconies as she went, but not finding the man. As she reached the top of the stairs and headed down the corridor that opened to below, she could hear faint laughter coming from the end of the hall. In slow, quiet steps, Sansa headed down the hall, her heart beginning to beat faster and the breath beginning to catch in her throat.

As she rounded the corner at the end of the hall, she found a woman pressed up against an older man in a suit, her lipstick stains smudged across his cheek and neck. Startled, Sansa backed away and let her eyes fall to the floor as she muttered her words.

"I'm so sorry. I was just…"

Flushed, Sansa's apology was cut short by another sound. This time, instead of laughter she heard arguing followed by a series of thuds. The couple exchanged a wide-eyed look before pushing past Sansa and retreating back down the corridor. Sansa remained fixed in her spot and steadied her breaths to hear. Again, angry shouts were punctuated with the sound of scuffling, as if two people were struggling against one another.

Part of her knew she should turn back and head downstairs, perhaps informing one of the security guards to check it out. But the other part of her was encouraging her forward, towards the service staircase that was tucked away in the back corner of the hallway and towards the direction of the sounds. Slowly, Sansa gave into the encouraging, her legs propelling her forward in tiny, tiptoed steps until she reached the stairs.

The shouting became louder as Sansa climbed the staircase and was now accompanied by the pleading wails of a woman and the pained screams of a man. As she shifted her weight slightly, the wood of the staircase underneath her groaned loudly. Instantaneously, the shouting stopped and was replaced by a muffled exchange between two men. Sansa's heart threatened to beat out of her chest as she worked her way back down the stairs as quietly as possible before pushing herself flush against the far side of the wall, away from the landing at the top of the stairs. Suddenly, a door upstairs flew open and she heard heavy footsteps descend the steps. One at a time, the footfalls got louder and her heart responded by beating fast and frantic in her chest.  _Stupid. This was so stupid. Please. Please. PLEASE don't let him come down here._

Sansa's silent pleading was answered. Above her, she could hear the heavy breathing of a man before he turned around and retreated back up the stairs, shouting as he reached the top of the landing.

"No one's out here. The house must be haunted or something."

Breathing a silent sigh of relief, Sansa wiped off the sweat that had beaded on her brow before carefully tiptoeing from the corner. Suddenly, the door upstairs flew open once more, and the sobs of a woman filled the stairway, echoing from the walls as the woman scampered haphazardly down the steps. Sansa found herself frozen in place, unable to move her legs despite her mind screaming for her to flee.

As the woman rounded the banister of the last stair, she came running towards Sansa, stumbling over her feet.  _It's her. It's the blonde-haired woman._ With blood trickling down her forehead and her mascara smeared across her face, the woman looked a fright. Her dress had been torn, somehow she had lost both of her shoes, and there was blood staining her platinum hair.

With her mouth gaped open in horror, Sansa stumbled backwards as the woman ran limping towards her and grabbed her by the shoulders, shaking her furiously.

"You have to get out of here! Go, run. NOW!" With that, the woman pushed Sansa towards the set of stairs leading to the floor below as she limped off down the main corridor.

Two popping sounds rang out from the room above, followed by a thud. Suddenly regaining the use of her legs, Sansa flew down the service staircase to the floor below. As she reached the bottom floor, she heard the same popping sound coming from all around her, echoing through the walls and rattling the windows. Somewhere within her, she instinctively knew what the sound was.  _Please, God. Let that be fireworks. Let it be something else._

Sansa was halfway down the stairs when she first started hearing the screams, followed by more popping sounds, followed by even more screams. She could hardly hear anything over the desperate and blood curdling shrieking which was punctuated by the thunder booming outside. When Sansa emerged in the kitchen, a man in a suit was on his knees clutching his throat, blood squirting between his fingers as he looked up at her and tried to speak. As Sansa darted her eyes about the room, she saw more bodies, more than she could count, lying amongst broken dishes and glass and people running, shoving past one another as sparks of light accompanied the popping sounds.

Stepping over the bleeding bodies, Sansa ran towards the great room, her legs shaking beneath her, her steps unsteady and stumbling as her vision started to become blurred and the smell of burning filled the air. When she entered the great room, the sight before her made her blood run cold and curdling through her veins. The room was half engulfed in flames eagerly licking up the sides of the walls, all the way up to the ceiling and filling the room with thick columns of black smoke. Amongst the flames, Sansa saw as men were dousing the walls in kerosene before kicking over the lit candelabras placed throughout the room. Beneath the smoke, Sansa could see the bodies of people she had seen eating, drinking, and talking not fifteen minutes before.

She felt the acidity of vomit hitting the back of her throat as she ran from the room and down the adjoining corridor. In front of her, a security guard was pacing hurriedly towards the foyer. As she tried to call out to him for help, her voice caught in her throat, her words coming out as whimpering gasps. Before she could clear her throat and try again, the security guard lifted his gun and pointed it towards the crowd of guests that were pushing towards the front door, their screams reverberating off the marble floors in a deafening cacophony.

Sansa felt a strong pull behind her and her feet slide across the floor. A hand flew up to her mouth, stifling her screams so they came as a muffled whimpering sound while her legs flailed violently.

"Sansa. It's me. Pod."

Podrick released his hold on her before pulling her into the butler pantry of the kitchen.

"My mom and Myranda. Where are they?"

Sansa's voice quivered uncontrollably and came out as frantic shouts, louder than she intended. Podrick paced wildly about the pantry, his eyes frenzied and darting about.

"I don't know. I heard shouting and then the gunshots. And then screaming. I ran, Sansa. I just ran."

Suddenly, he stopped and grabbed her wrist, pulling her around hard to look at him. His eyes flickered with terror.

"We have to get out of here."

As they emerged cautiously from the pantry, the kitchen was beginning to fill with smoke. The frantic shifting of a form through the smoke caught Sansa's attention. Myranda broke through the smoke, coughing and tears streaming down her face. On her left side, blood was saturating her dress. Sansa broke away from Podrick and ran towards her friend, pulling her into her arms.

"Myranda! What happened?"

Gasping for air, Myranda choked out sobs as she collapsed in Sansa's arms, pushing her weight up against her and her voice screaming.

"I...I don't' know. They're…they're killing everyone. Oh, God."

Myranda's words were interrupted by hysterical sobs as she doubled over in front of Sansa, gasping and clutching her side. Once again feeling an insistent tug on her arm, Sansa heard Podrick's voice cracking with fear and desperation from behind her.

"We have to go. Both of you! We have to go  _now_."

Sansa pulled free of his grasp and spun around to face him, her voice quivering, yet insistent all the same.

"My mom is here somewhere. I'm not leaving her!"

Sansa turned towards Myranda who had slumped to the floor, her body wracked with heaving sobs. With all her might, Sansa tried to pull Myranda from the floor, but the girl was inconsolable and refused to budge.

"Myranda, come on! We have to go. Get up!"

The crunching of glass forced Sansa to snap her head up. When she did, she saw the man in front of her, the scarred side of his face gleaming grotesquely in the light and his white shirt splattered with blood, a pistol clutched in his right hand.

Feeling her blood run cold, Sansa tried to back away as the man paced towards her, glass breaking under his feet with his eyes glazed over in ferocity. Sansa's legs wouldn't budge as Myranda clung to her, clawing at Sansa's legs and squealing out her pleas for the man to go away. With one forceful pull, Podrick yanked Sansa free from Myranda's grasp and took a hold of her wrist before running at a furious pace towards the service staircase.

In a few hurried strides, the man crossed the kitchen, almost effortlessly closing the distance between him and Sansa. One of his hands wrapped around her arm and pulled her backwards as a stunned Podrick let go of her wrist. Spinning her around to face him, Sansa stumbled into the man, her legs melting beneath her as her knees refused to hold her weight any longer. Still clutching his pistol, the man caught her in his free arm and steadied her to her feet.

As the man tried to pull her back across the kitchen, Sansa fought feebly against him, turning in his arm so that her back was to his chest as she reached out screaming for Podrick who stood by helplessly, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly.

With as much force as she could muster, Sansa swung her elbow into the man's stomach, loosening his grip on her just enough so that she could break free of his arm. As she took two wobbling steps forward, Sansa stumbled and fell to the ground, wincing in pain as shards of glass cut into the skin of her arms and legs.

Flipping her over to her back, the man tried to pull her up. His effort was futile as Sansa frantically flailed her arms and legs to stave the man off as she struggled to get back to her feet and flee. Before she could crawl away, the man flipped her to her back once more and straddled her, sitting on her legs and pinning her arms down above her head, one of his large hands easily encircling both of her wrists. Sansa squirmed underneath him and whimpered as she felt the glass pushing further in her skin.

"Please! Please, don't!"

The man lowered himself on top of her, still holding her hands above her head and resting his other forearm next to her face, his pistol looming dangerously close to her cheek. As his face lingered a few inches above hers, Sansa could smell the scent of blood and whiskey on him, mingling amongst the faint smell of his cologne. Strands of his hair brushed against her cheek, sticking to the tears that were streaming from her eyes.

"Unless you want to die tonight, Sansa Stark, you had better fucking cooperate with me. I'm not a patient man."

Sansa could feel his voice vibrate through her as it came deep and bellowing from his chest, flickered with a strange calm despite his threatening words.

With his weight on top of her, Sansa's pleas came as stifled mewling sounds, indistinguishable through her trembling lips. More tears filled her eyes as the smoke began to stream into the room, blurring her vision and further siphoning the breath from her lungs in gagging coughs.

Through the smoke, Sansa could see that Podrick had somehow managed to glide his way past them and was standing above the man, clutching a knife in both of his shaking hands. Seeing her gaze shift, the man pulled himself up from Sansa, but it was too late. Podrick plunged the blade of the knife in the man's lower back.

Groaning in rage and frustration, the man pulled the knife from his back and tossed it aside. As he lifted his weight from her slightly, Sansa pulled her legs out from underneath him with a sudden jerk. Stumbling to her feet and with Podrick pulling her by the wrist, Sansa ran to the back staircase with her eyes searching the kitchen for Myranda. The girl was nowhere to be found, seemingly having slipped away.

As they burst through the back door and into the night, a steady rainfall lashed against their faces as the wind was a deafening roar against their ears. With Podrick leading the way, they ran through the gardens behind the Royce estate, weaving through the tall shrubs and trees, trampling over flower beds and herb patches. Turning her gaze momentarily behind her, Sansa saw as half of the mansion was engulfed in flames, the peonies garlands and beautiful turrets of the house melting into grotesque shapes under the blaze. Gunshots pierced through the night, but the screams softened as they ran down the hill that separated the Royce and Payne properties from one another.

Sansa kept her stare forward as they neared Podrick's house, her legs burning as the embedded glass worked its way further into her delicate flesh. Lightening flashed above them and illuminated the sky so that it shown like daytime. Petrified that the scarred man was fast on their heels, Sansa reluctantly turned her gaze around her shoulder, almost certain she would find him there. Behind her all she saw were plumes of violent flames stark against the churning of the stormy sky. Beyond that, the expanse behind her was empty.

After running for what felt like an eternity, Sansa and Podrick pushed through the back door of his house, both falling to the cold tile floor panting and gasping for breath. Bursts of lightening illuminated the house, which was pitch dark and dreadfully silent. Podrick sat with his back against the wall, dazed and shaking and his mouth opening and closing ever so slightly as he mumbled to himself.

Scooting across the floor, Sansa slid next to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. Panicked, Podrick snapped his stare towards the ceiling as the sounds of footsteps creaked above them. Pushing himself quietly to his feet and pulling Sansa up with him, he pushed his index finger to his lips, shushing Sansa despite her silence.

The footsteps above them moved slowly and deliberately, pacing towards the front of the house towards the staircase situated near the foyer. With his eyes wide and his body trembling, Podrick turned towards her, his words a barely discernible whisper.

"Someone's here. We have to go."

In soft, silent steps, Podrick led the way through the darkness to the door of the garage. Pushing his hand in his pocket, he pulled out his car keys. Through quivering fingers, the keys hit the ground with  an echoing thud against the tile floor. The pacing steps above them turned to hurried stomping down the foyer stairs. In one sweeping motion, Podrick snatched the keys from the ground and swung open the door to the garage, pulling Sansa with him.

As Sansa swung into the passenger seat of the car, Podrick fumbled with the keys, his hands shaking uncontrollably.

"Podrick! Hurry, please! We have to get out of here."

Finally, his clumsy fingers pushed the keys into the ignition as the garage door opened behind them. With her breath catching painfully in her chest, Sansa saw the form of a man behind them, a silhouette against the volatile sky. As the man neared closer, Sansa's blood ran cold through her veins.  _The security guard. The one from the gate._

With a devious smile spread about his face, the man clutched an assault rifle in his hand and started towards them. Throwing the car into reverse, Podrick slammed on the acceleration, hitting the man with a thud and sending him flying through the air.

The tires squealed loudly as they flew at a furious pace out of the driveway and down the street, away from the hellish nightmare the evening had become. Turning in her seat, Sansa looked through the rear view window and saw with horror as the Royce estate was fully engulfed with flames. Her heart pounded and her eyes were stinging with tears at the thought that her mother and Myranda might still be there. But she knew, with crystalline and painful clarity, they could not turn back. So with a storm raging above them, Sansa and Podrick fled into the night and into an entirely uncertain future.

 


	2. Chapter 2

  **Gods and Monsters**

Chapter Two

* * *

_'Emergency dispatchers received the first call at 9:22 pm this evening. Security guards hired for the event apparently turned gunfire on party goers...'_

The crackling sound of radio static interspersed with the squeaking of the wiper blades filled the car as Sansa and Podrick sat in silence, dazed and driving through sheets of pounding rain. They had been driving south on Highway 5 for the past hour, each lost in their own thoughts and trying desperately to wrap their heads around what had transpired just a short time ago. Sansa knew not what to say, let alone what to think. She hadn't even bothered to pick out the bits of glass that were embedded in the skin of her legs and arms. The sharp, driving pain of the glass-filled gashes was eclipsed by the dull aching she felt in her chest, as if her heart had been ripped from her body, leaving a gaping hole in its place.

When they reached Highway 5, Sansa had held her breath; if Podrick headed north, they would pass by the turn-off for her house. And south. South led nowhere, at least to her. Everything she loved, everything she had ever known, was north on Highway 5. As Podrick turned on the southbound I-5 ramp, Sansa felt her heart sink into the pit of her stomach. She wanted to plead with him - to tell him to turn around so that she could find her father and hopefully her mother too. Perhaps her mom had somehow escaped and was at home, worried sick and waiting up at the kitchen table for Sansa to come home. The thought brought the sting of tears to her eyes; tears because she desperately wanted this vision to be true, but mostly because somewhere within her she knew it was not. She sensed that her mother hadn't made it out, and that she wasn't waiting up at the kitchen table.

_'The total number of dead and injured remains unclear at this point, but emergency vehicles have just recently arrived at the scene.'_

The radio was coming in and out of frequency as they neared Salem, the broadcaster's voice interrupted by the twanging of some lovelorn country singer. When they left Portland at a speeding pace, Sansa had frantically flipped through each and every radio station, waiting patiently for songs to finish and the radio host to come on with a breaking news announcement. For forty-five minutes she did this - up and down the dial, back and forth between AM and FM. Finally, she had found news coverage, yet it did little to ease the aching in her heart and the sourness of her stomach, which was churning as she played the events of the evening over and over in her restless mind.

_'Currently, the main effort has been focused on containing the blaze which has completely engulfed this entire residence and threatens surrounding homes.'_

It didn't make any sense to her. If the first emergency call came in at 9:22 pm, why did it take so long for police to respond? Biting her lip hard at the thought, Sansa let her cell phone tumble from one hand to the other, fighting the urge to turn it on and call her father. At the very least, she wanted to let him know she was okay and that she loved him with all her heart.

_'As mentioned, a lot remains unclear at this point. Police are refusing comment until more details emerge. For now, they're suggesting residents of the Lake Oswega community remain in their homes until the area has been secured by law enforcement.'_

With one hand covering the screen of her phone and the thumb of her other pressing and holding the power button, Sansa turned on the phone and awaited the vibration of missed text messages, voicemails, and phone calls coming from her parents and Myranda. For what felt like an eternity, she waited and with each passing second felt her heart sink deeper within her chest. Slowly, she removed her hand covering the screen only to find the background picture of her and her parents at graduation, no voicemail icons, no blinking LED light for text messages. Heart sick, Sansa swiped the screen and pulled up her dad's cell phone number before pressing her thumb against the call icon and raising the phone to her ear.

With her hand trembling, Sansa heard one ring and then his voice.  _'You've reached Eddard Stark. I'm sorry I am unable to take your call right now. Please leave a name, number, and a brief message and I will get back t-'_

Suddenly, Sansa felt the phone being yanked away from her face, the soothing tone of her father's voice drifting away from her ears. With one hand still on the steering wheel, Podrick pulled off the back cover of her phone with deft fingers and rolled down his window. As rain dribbled in, Podrick tossed the battery out of the window to go tumbling down the highway behind them.

Sansa turned in her seat towards him before shifting her head over her shoulder, looking out the rear view window in disbelief.

"What did you do that for?"

She slumped back in her seat and crossed her arms about her chest, suddenly feeling the pieces of glass digging into her skin with a painful throb. Glancing over, she saw as Podrick's jaw clenched in frustration, and his eyes blinked rapidly in agitation.

"People can track you by your cell phone, you know? Your signal bouncing off of the cell towers is like connect-the-dots; just follow the lines until you find what you're looking for."

Sansa knew he was right. Throughout the drive, his eyes shifted constantly to the rear view mirror, studying the highway behind them for any cars that seemed to be tailing them. If a car hovered too long, Podrick would speed up or slow down and patiently wait for the other car to either fall behind or pass them. She didn't want to admit his instincts were right. Admission would mean that the nightmare was real and that they were most likely being followed. Instead, she feigned ignorance, not willing just yet to let go of the idea that they were traveling towards safety.

"What are you talking about?"

Throwing his hands up in the air, Podrick turned his glare towards her, his eyes flickering with exasperation but his voice somehow pleading with her, willing her to understand.

"You still don't get it, do you? Put it together, Sansa! Connect the damn dots! Your dad is the district attorney. The district attorney before him, your Uncle Brandon, was murdered. Everyone knows that the Royce's party is a microcosm of Portland high society shoved into the same house for an entire evening. Anyone who is wealthy or powerful is in attendance, including everyone from the district attorney's office. It was only a matter of time before something bad happened, something like this."

Sansa had never seen Podrick like this, his breaths huffing from his body and his hands swinging animatedly through the air and in time with the inflection of his voice. Leaning forward, he flicked off the radio, extinguishing the white noise of static that filled the gulf of silence which had settled between them. With a deep sigh, Podrick settled back in his seat and slumped his head against the head rest before beginning again, this time his voice softer and strained with grief.

"I'm not going to pretend I know why this happened because I don't, but it wasn't some freak accident. They planned this, Sansa. They knew certain people would be there. If you would've seen…"

Podrick's voice dropped off abruptly and gave way to a slight whimpering sound. Through the darkness, Sansa saw that he had begun to cry, tears glistening off his cheeks as columns of the passing highway lights streamed through the window. Choking back the tears and taking a deep breath, he began again.

"They were looking for certain people. They didn't come in right off the bat just killing everyone. They wanted certain people. Sansa…I think you were one of them. If I hadn't been able to get you away from that guy, I don't…I don't know."

Podrick let his words hang unspoken in the air as his voice once more broke off into a deafening silence. Sansa understood his implication, having already pondered the “'what ifs”. There were too many to count. What if the scarred man had pulled her away from Podrick? What if she had called out to the security guard just seconds before he opened fire in the foyer? What if she had never left the great room in search of the scarred man? Worse, what if she  _had_  found the scarred man, delivered herself right into his hands?

 

_Connect the dots. Connect the damn dots, Sansa. Think. Think. Think._ Once more, she sensed Podrick's instincts were spot on; the events of the evening seemed to be interconnected. If she could just piece them together, perhaps she could make sense of what happened, begin to understand. Then again, she wasn't entirely certain she wanted to understand. What she  _wanted_ , what she  _needed_ , was her family. More than that, she wanted to wake up - to open her eyes and find herself tucked safely in her bed amongst her blankets, to hear her father's soft snoring from down the hallway, to wake up and realize that perhaps this was just a terrible, awful nightmare, and none of it had actually happened. Over breakfast, she could tell her mother of the horrible dream she had and listen to her father's psycho-babble about the connection between dreams and external stressors in our lives.

But Sansa knew that this wasn't a dream. She only needed to look down at the scrapes and scratches on her legs and feel the painful ache in her chest, the ache of her heart breaking, to know that this was real, that her life had changed entirely, been turned completely upside down and torn apart within a few short hours. Once more, she allowed her mind to stray back to the events of the evening, to mentally walk through each and every moment, replaying it with as much objectivity as she could so that she might be able to piece together the details.

As she pondered the events, scrutinized each memory in her mind, Sansa kept coming back to the scarred man: the way he had silently observed the other party goers rather than mingle amongst them, the other men that surrounded him and seemed to take orders from him, seemingly waiting for his command, the blonde haired woman who unsuccessfully tried to entice him. Each obscurity of the night seemed to somehow circle back to the scarred man.  _'Unless you want to die tonight, Sansa Stark, you had better fucking cooperate with me. I'm not a patient man.'_

Sansa could hear his voice in her head, the way his words rattled through her own chest as he spoke, his calm insistence that intimated he was in control and was well aware of it.  _He knew my name. Somehow he knew my name._

True enough, her father was the district attorney; everyone knew who Eddard Stark was, and perhaps they knew that he had a daughter named Sansa. But as she filed through the faces she remembered from the party, none of them struck her as familiar. They had hardly seemed to recognize her either. Perhaps they knew that Sansa Stark was the daughter of Eddard Stark, but it was unlikely they could put a face together with the name. Her father had strived to keep his personal life and work life separate, only introducing a select few of his work associates to Sansa and her mother. Sansa could count on one hand the number of times she visited him at his office, and even then, those instances had been years ago when she was still a child. The scarred man knew her name. Beyond that, she sensed that he knew who she was - the daughter of the district attorney.

As she worked her way back through the evening, rewinding the time in slow motion, Sansa suddenly remembered the way the security guard at the gate had loitered over her and her mother. He had barely taken a second glance at their invitation, but instead had removed his sun glasses and peered his head in through the open car window, staring at each of them in turn.  _That's the connection…_

Talking through her revelations as they came, Sansa turned towards Podrick, leaning her arm against the seat, ignoring the stinging pain from the shards of glass and letting the words spill from her mouth a mile a minute.

"Podrick, you're right. They wanted certain people. The security guard at the gate, the one you backed over, he was supposed to be checking invitations at the gate as people arrived, but he barely even glanced at most of them. He just let cars through without a second thought.  _Except_ when my mom and I got there. It was like he had been waiting for us to get there, for the Starks to arrive."

Clearly uncomfortable at the thought and growing increasingly listless, Podrick shifted his weight in his seat before biting his lip nervously, once again letting his eyes fleet towards the rear view mirror as his grip tightened around the steering wheel.

"Okay, so the security guards were in on it. But it's not like they were just a random group of vigilante security guards out to wreak havoc. Someone else was involved too."

Sansa sensed his uneasiness; the slight quivering of his voice broke through as he spoke.  _He's trying to be strong for me, but he's scared out of his mind._

"Well, that's just it. Of course the security guards didn't just act on their own. The man with the scars, the one who came after me in the kitchen, he knew my name. And there were other men with him too. You saw them; they were in the great room. When I went upstairs, I heard those men arguing with someone. I heard a woman crying and a man screaming like he was being hurt. Then the woman came out; she looked like she had been hurt too. I heard the gun shots, and that's when I ran downstairs. I know who's involved. I just don't understand what they would want with me."

Rolling his eyes in frustration, Podrick slowly turned his stare towards her, carefully emphasizing each and every syllable of each and every word he spoke. The words rolled off of his tongue swathed in a bitterness she never knew to associate with Podrick Payne, the boy who was usually so timid and easy going.

"Your dad is the DA, preparing the case to end all cases against one of the most prolific crime syndicates on the west coast. The writing's on the wall, Sansa. Do I need to spell it out for you?"

She already understood, probably more than Podrick. It had already been spelled out for her long before the Royce's party. Her father had been eager to pursue the Moriarti case except for one glaring reservation she had overheard him confess to her mother one evening a few years ago. Her father felt strongly that the case put their entire family in a vulnerable position.

Sansa had never known her father to be afraid of anything, but that night, with her ear pushed up against the wall of her bedroom, she could hear the fear underlying her father's voice as he explained how dangerous a man the Hound was. Sansa let her mind wander once more to the scarred man, how he had effortlessly exuded strength and power, how the room seemed to move around him and how he seemed to be at its center even if he went relatively unnoticed to the others.  _The Hound…If the Moriarti mafia was involved, could the scarred man be the Hound?_

The thought scared Sansa more than she could have imagined. If the Moriarti mafia was involved, this meant that her father wasn't safe. Even worse, her father was quite possibly one of the individuals that was being sought out earlier in the night. By serendipity and fate, he just happened to not be in attendance. Sansa considered turning to Pod, asking for his thoughts on the matter, and in turn, gaining the reassurance she needed in this moment. She wanted Podrick to tell her it wasn't planned and carried out by the Moriarti, that it was something,  _anything_ else. But she knew that he wouldn't do that. Podrick would never let Sansa kid herself into thinking something like that. So instead, Sansa hung her head, stubbornly refusing to meet Podrick's patient stare even after she could see from the corner of her eye the defeated guiltiness flooding his face.

A chiming noise roused Sansa's attention as her eyes lifted towards the flickering gas light that shone through the darkness of the car. Through the veil of blackness between them, Sansa saw Podrick mouth an expletive as he contemplated the gas light, almost as if he were willing it to go away.

"I think I saw a sign for a gas station a few miles back. The exit should be coming up here soon."

As she spoke, Sansa crossed her arms about her chest and rested her head against the window, feeling the condensation from the glass wet against her throbbing head and watching as the rain trickled from the windshield to run in droplet-sized streams across the window. The rain had let up some, but in its place a fog was beginning to envelope the road as the night began to grow chilly. The lamp posts dotting the sides of the highway had begun to thin out; the columns of light that would fill the car as they passed became less and less frequent. The only light illuminating the darkness inside of the car was the occasional beams of headlights from passing travelers and the soft crimson glow of the dashboard lights. Beyond that, Sansa and Podrick sat in a heavy darkness and an even heavier silence.

After a few miles and with the incessant chiming of the low fuel indicator, Podrick pulled off of the highway and headed towards a dimly lit gas station that was situated half a mile down a dusty two-lane road. As they pulled in, Sansa was fairly certain the gas station was all but abandoned. A rusted tin overhang feebly sheltered four pumps, two of which had paper signs precariously taped to the nozzles with the childish letters spelling "Out of Order”. Attached from the overhang was a metal sign reading “Frank's Fuel and Auto Repair” in faded letters, the paint having chipped off with time and wear.

As she stepped from the car, Sansa stumbled forward, her legs aching as she stretched them. The sign above her groaned loudly on its hinges with each gusting of the wind. Located adjacent to the overhang was a tiny gas mart with a meager mechanic's garage attached. The door to the garage was a series of glass panes, most covered with a film of brown grease and dirt, save a few of the top panes where the filth had been wiped away.

Through the glass, Sansa saw the flickering of fluorescent lights and a row of shelves filled with empty canisters, rusted tools, and boxes of old news papers, magazines, and envelopes. Whoever Frank was, he certainly wasn't repairing cars anymore; rather, the garage seemed to function as a storage unit filled with forgotten piles of junk that looked like they hadn't been touched in years. The gas mart didn't look any more promising and did little to set Sansa at ease. The glass door had been propped open with a chipped cinder block, and through it the mournful wailing of Hank Williams Sr.'s “ _Ramblin' Man_ _”_ poured forth from a small, portable radio. It appeared as though the gas mart boasted a handful of sparsely filled shelves, the empty space between items blanketed with a thin layer of dust.

Through squinted eyes, Sansa peered through the gas mart windows but did not see an attendant behind the cash register, nor between the make-shift aisles of the shelves. Truly, it was as if the gas station had been deserted, left to rot away with time and be fully forgotten on the side of this lonely road.

"Damn it!"

Sansa spun on her heel towards Podrick who was standing in front of the pump, pushing frantically on the fuel grade button before shoving the nozzle back into its holder with a crashing sound of metal scraping against metal.

"What? What's wrong?"

"I have to pre-pay inside." Podrick lifted himself to his toes, shifting his head back and forth and setting his stare through the gas mart windows. "Let's hope someone's in there. I don't know if we can make it to another gas station."

Wordlessly, Sansa nodded her head, feeling her heart beating faster and the sourness returning to the pit of her stomach. Every instinct in her body wanted her to flee, to head down the highway until they came to another gas station, one that wasn't in the middle of absolutely nowhere. However, she knew Podrick was right once again; they had rolled into this gas station on little more than fumes. There was no way they would make it to another station, so this one would have to do whether she liked it or not.

"Stay in the car. I'll see if I can find someone in there."

Sansa paced back to the car and slumped into the seat, feeling the soreness settle heavily into her legs and the fatigue beginning to descend upon her. Her body wanted to sleep, to drift away into a dreamless oblivion, but as her thoughts raced through her mind, she knew sleep would not come easy to her, not tonight at least. Resting her head back in the seat, Sansa shifted her stare towards the gas mart and saw Podrick wandering about, peaking his head around the register and shouting out towards whoever might be loitering around.

Suddenly, a beam of flickering yellow light filled the side view mirror as a car pulled up behind her, the tires crunching underneath loosened gravel. Moving as slowly as possible despite the frantic beating of her heart, Sansa's eyes flew to the rear view mirror as she pushed herself up. In the reflection, Sansa saw twin headlights peering out from a beat-up blue Buick, the paint chipping off of the hood and the front bumper blotched with spots of rust.  _No. No. No. God, please no._

Sansa darted her eyes towards the gas mart and saw Podrick emerging from the open door and pacing towards the garage. Lost in the task at hand, he hadn't seemed to notice the car that had pulled up. Scooting back down in her seat as far as she could, Sansa turned her stare behind her and saw as a silhouette shifted in the driver's seat of the Buick. The lights above the tin overhang offered little light, but through the darkness Sansa could see as the driver leaned over the passenger seat and worked through the contents of the glove box. For many moments, Sansa sat entirely still, watching as the driver of the other car shifted back and forth, seemingly searching through their car for something. Having found whatever they were looking for, the driver suddenly flicked off the head lights of the car, leaving Sansa in almost complete darkness.

Terrified someone had been following them, Sansa turned herself forward in her seat and bit her lip, contemplating whether or not to flee from the car and get Podrick. Remembering she had seen his cell phone somewhere, Sansa searched the center console. If she needed to, she could call for help; surely they were within close enough range to a cell tower that she could find a signal. Sansa searched through the center arm rest, shuffling through empty CD cases and tossing aside a pair of sunglasses. A sudden, sharp knock at the window made her blood run cold. Startled, Sansa jumped and turned with her mouth contorted in a petrified gape towards the window.

Hovering in the window was the face of a thirty-something-year-old man; thick, black rimmed glasses framed his wide blue eyes, magnifying them such that he looked bug-eyed. His sandy blonde hair had been slicked back into a pompadour, stray strands sticking out here and there as the wind tousled through it. A dark blue flannel shirt was tucked neatly into his high wasted khaki corduroy pants. As he smiled through the foggy glass, Sansa noticed that one of his front teeth had been chipped at the corner, leaving behind a small, jagged hole in his smile. He faintly reminded Sansa of her eighth grade science teacher, Mr. Carlson; the same goofy look was plastered to this man's face as he peered in through the window with bright blue eyes. With a rotation of his wrist, the man motioned to Sansa to roll down the window.

Hesitating, Sansa's eyes darted towards the door lock situated near the far corner of the window. Following her eyes to the door lock, the man lifted his hands up in acquiescence, seemingly understanding her uncertainty. Shouting through the window, the man motioned towards the lonely country road winding behind them.

"I'm sorry if I scared you. I think I got turned around. I was wondering if you might be able to give me some directions."

Sansa froze as she felt her limbs become rigid. With his glasses fogging up at the humidity and his mouth crooked into a hopeful half smile, the man looked harmless enough, and he did seem legitimately lost. As Sansa reached for the door handle, the man held up an index finger for her to wait a moment before stepping away and shoving his hand into his pocket, pulling free a cell phone which he flipped open and lifted to his ear, retreating from her door as he answered a call.

Sansa's gaze shifted to Podrick as he circled around the car to the gas pump, pulling the nozzle from its holder before twisting off the gas cap. Once he had situated the nozzle, Podrick slid into the driver's seat, eying the bug-eyed man before flipping the lock on the doors.

"What did he say to you?" As the man paced back and forth next to his Buick, Podrick kept his eyes squarely on the rear view mirror, watching intently.

"He said he was lost, wanted some directions. I take it you found the attendant?"

For many moments, Podrick remained quiet, either having not heard her question or deciding not to answer. Either way, he scrutinized the pacing man in the rear view mirror.

"Yeah, I found him. That car doesn't have a license plate."

Sansa turned in her seat and looked out the rear window as the man slid into the driver's seat of his car, his phone held up to his face with one shoulder as he fumbled with his seat belt. Sure enough, an empty license plate frame hung on the front bumper. Before she could respond, Podrick jumped from the car and pulled out the gas nozzle, dribbling gasoline across the ground as he haphazardly shoved the nozzle back into its holder and twisted the gas cap back in place.

Once Podrick climbed back in the car, the Buick behind them began backing out from underneath the overhang. Sansa and Podrick breathed a sigh of relief in unison as the Buick headed down the country road away from the highway in the opposite direction from where they were headed.

As they pulled onto the Pacific Highway heading south once more, Sansa saw the clock turn to midnight; the time burned in the back of her vision so that when she closed her eyes she saw the flashing of red numbers in the veil of darkness behind her eyelids. Sansa contemplated the time, watching it dart about behind closed eyes until it disappeared. In doing this, she had somehow drifted into sleep, a dark oblivion that offered little by the way of rest, for when she awoke she felt worse for the wear; her legs throbbed, and the pain of the glass still embedded in her arms threatened to bring tears to her eyes.

Squinting until her vision once again came back into focus, Sansa looked out the window to find rows of fluorescent signs dotting the outer road of the highway and bleeding their light into the car, every imaginable icon of American consumerism standing proud and reaching towards the night sky.

"Where are we?"

With a sleepy sigh, Sansa stretched her arms above her head, wincing at the soreness she found there before rubbing her eyes and looking at the clock. She had slept for close to three hours, yet she felt as though she had barely closed her eyes. Her sleep had been blessedly dreamless, devoid of the nightmares she had expected to find waiting for her as soon as she drifted off to sleep.

"We're passing through Medford right now."

Podrick's voice was flat; his words grumbled from his throat, the fatigue deepening the timbre of his voice by at least an octave. As she shifted her gaze towards him, Sansa found that dark circles had appeared under his eyes which were glazed over as he stared mindlessly down the empty highway in front of them.

"Where are we heading?"

With his stare still fixed on the road ahead, Podrick shrugged his shoulders, offering her little more than that. It was apparent that not only was he tired, but he had probably spent the last three hours perseverating over their predicament, second guessing himself and battling with the uncertainties that were seemingly running rampant throughout his worried mind. Sansa knew Podrick too well. He spent much of his time up in his own head, lost daydreaming in his thoughts. She sensed he had retreated back within himself, replaying the night over and over in his head. He had stepped up in the heat of the moment, saving her from whatever uncertain fate she faced in the hands of the scarred man. With his resolve diminishing, Sansa felt it was now her turn to step up, to be the voice of reason and exhibit strength enough for the both of them.

"Podrick, listen. We can't just drive forever. Eventually, we're going to have to reach out to someone, let them know we're okay and that we need help. We need a plan, Podrick. We can't just keep running."

Pleased with herself, Sansa settled back in her seat and crossed her arms about her chest as the passing lights streamed through the windshield, reflecting through the rain drops as red, green, and yellow orbs. She saw as Podrick sighed out his breath, relenting as the tension in his body seemed to ease ever so slightly with the weight of the world now being shared between them.

"My parents and little sister went to Sacramento for the weekend. I was sort of heading that way. My dad will know what to do."

Sansa chewed her lip at the thought. The stretch of the Pacific Highway ahead of them was dangerous by day; the road wound through the mountainous terrain of the southern part of the state, passing here and there through small cities. With the rain returning steadfast and lashing against the windshield, their travel was becoming increasingly difficult and treacherous besides. They had been zigzagging through the western Cascade Mountains. Once they passed over the California border, the Pacific Highway would become a nightmare to drive at night, let alone in the rain. As Sansa looked over, she saw Podrick's head propped firmly against the head rest, his eyes heavily hooded and blinking slowly as sleep threatened to overtake him.

"Podrick, Sacramento is probably another five hours away, at least. Don't you think we should stop for a bit, get some rest?"

Once more, Podrick shifted his stare to the rear view mirror, silently evaluating the highway behind them before settling his drowsy stare on the clock, a glowing red reminder of how long they'd been running and how much further they still needed to go. Reluctantly, Podrick nodded his head before shutting his eyes tightly and reopening them widely in an effort to stave off the fatigue.

"Yeah, I guess you're right. But let's get into California first. We'll stop at the first town we come to and stay for the night. We can wait for the rain to let up a bit and then drive the rest of the way to Sacramento. Does that sound okay to you?"

Sansa nodded her head firmly, relieved to finally have some sense of direction. When the car slowly wandered over the white lines into the lane next to them before jerking suddenly back into their designated lane, Sansa insisted that she drive. To her relief, Podrick put up no fight and instead pulled the car off on the last Medford exit and stumbled to the passenger side of the car in a groggy haze of sleep.

Within fifteen minutes, Podrick was asleep in the passenger seat, his eyes squeezed shut tightly, his limbs jerking every now and then as he tossed his head in his sleep.  _He's having nightmares. No wonder he wanted to put off sleep for so long._ Sansa could hardly blame him. Brought on by exhaustion, her own sleep had been dreamless. As Podrick twitched and groaned in his sleep, Sansa felt her heart wrench within her chest as a wave of helplessness washed over her. There was hardly anything she could do for him but let him sleep and relive the nightmare all over again in the darkness behind his eyes. Soon enough, she knew her sleep would be haunted by the same dreams. But for now, she drove with her hands tightly wrapped around the steering wheel. The suburbs had thinned out, and the red glow of Medford lingered in the rear view mirror until eventually fading away into darkness.

In front of her, the road curved through the soft slopes of the mountains, the hills beyond the guard rail black forms in the night which had become dangerously dark; the highway lamps struggled futilely to fill the darkness with their light. Every now and then, the head lights of an approaching car would illuminate the road in front of her before passing and disappearing into the folds of the road behind her. As the rain let up to a drizzle, Sansa let her grip around the wheel loosen slightly.

She had never driven this stretch of the Pacific Highway, even when she and her father had traveled to visit a handful of universities in northern California. He had refused to let her drive, offering a vague explanation that the Pacific Highway near the California border was best left to experienced drivers. She had rolled her eyes at him then and relented, letting him have his way if it meant she could spare him some anxiety at her driving. Squinting her eyes to focus, she now understood what he had meant. A small metal guard rail was the only thing keeping her from tumbling down the steep hills that surrounded the highway. Beyond this, the road was poorly lit and devoid of traffic. She felt as if the world around them was silent and still - that she and Podrick were the last souls on earth, running from fleeting shadows and imagined monsters.

As she passed over the Oregon-California border, Sansa leaned forward in her seat, resting her chest against the steering wheel as her eyes eagerly sought out exit signs. The first few exits snaked off into the pitch black hills that surrounded the road, offering nothing save random historical sites that surely no one had visited in years. It wasn't until twenty-five minutes after she had crossed the border and after a thick blanket of fog had rolled from the hills, that Sansa spotted the faint glowing of a fluorescent sign off in the distance.

Pulling off of the highway and towards the sign, Sansa saw a small, dusty town nestled in a valley of the mountain foothills. The town boasted little more than a church, gas station, and small school. Situated at the edge of the town, a small abandoned bottling factory stood grotesquely in the night; panes of windows had been broken, and the sides of the building were covered with faded graffiti. Piles of scrap metal and bricks created a perimeter around half of the building with the other half of the perimeter composed of rusted and corroding cars and trucks.

On the other side of the factory stood a motel, its out-dated neon sign flickering in the night, half of the letters having burned out. The motel was something out of a Hitchcock film, probably built sometime in the 1960s and having changed little since then. It boasted twelve rooms with two floors, six rooms to each floor and the doors opening to the outside. In front of the motel, a partially rusted wrought iron fence encircled a small pool, the cover of which was filled with rain water and algae, having obviously been out of use for a number of years. Around the dilapidated pool, molding plastic lounge chairs were scattered about, looking as if they had been tossed around in the wind.

Sansa pulled the car into the sparsely filled gravel lot, parking next to the only other car she saw. As she turned the car off and unbuckled her seat belt, Podrick shot up in his seat and through squinted eyes, looked around at the motel.

"You've got to be kidding me."

With the weight of his disbelieving stare pressing into her, Sansa swept her eyes towards the horizon behind them, liking what she saw no more than Podrick

"You said the first town we came to after the California border. This is it, Podrick. The first town."

Rubbing his hands over his face with a groan and shaking his head, Podrick gave a deep sigh before staring at the neon vacancy sign above the motel office door, his nose wrinkled up in a look of aversion as he mumbled his words.

"Jesus fucking Christ, alright. If this is it, I guess I'll just have to deal. Come on, let's go."

With that, Podrick pushed open the car door and stepped out onto the gravel lot, cursing under his breath as his feet landed in an ankle-deep puddle.

As he paced around to the trunk of the car, Sansa stretched her limbs, wincing as the shards of glass once more offered her a painful reminder of their presence. She watched as Podrick shuffled through piles of CDs, notebooks, and random pieces of clothing in his trunk before pulling out a blue and grey striped sweater. With a half smile and his hair tumbling into his eyes, Podrick tossed it towards Sansa, shrugging his shoulders when she caught it.

"You looked cold."

With that, Podrick started towards the motel office door, pulling it open for her as she folded his sweater over her arm. As they entered the motel office, Sansa felt as if she was stepping back in time. The walls were covered with dark stained wood paneling offset by linoleum flooring that was yellowed with time and peeling up at the corners. Across the room from the counter, a line of mismatched, plastic covered folding chairs were pushed up against the wall. With a cigarette between his lips, a young man probably a few years older than Sansa and Podrick was behind the counter, fumbling with the antenna of a small TV, moving it in circular motions as a re-run of _I Dream of Geni'_ came in and out through static. Taking apprehensive steps, Podrick approached the counter, clearing his throat to rouse the motel clerk's attention as the man pounded against the TV and mumbled his frustration with a slew of curses. The motel clerk spun on his heel, the ash of his cigarette fluttering through the air before he flicked the butt into a heavy glass ash tray.

With a raised eyebrow, the motel clerk shifted his eyes back and forth between Sansa and Podrick, the implication written all over his face while his voice remained wholly monotone and apathetic.

"Will you be wanting the hourly rate?"

Shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, Podrick shook his head adamantly as his face immediately turned a deep shade of red and his eyes darted away from Sansa.

"No. We'll be needing a room for the night."

Shrugging his shoulders, the clerk snatched up a room key and tossed it on the counter before pulling another cigarette from the front pocket of his shirt and placing it behind his ear.

"Fair enough. It'll be $37.68. You'll be in room 6. It's at the other end of the lot."

Wordlessly, Podrick nodded his head and shoved his hand into his pocket, pulling forth two wadded up twenty dollar bills and placing them lightly on the counter. Sighing with annoyance, the clerk picked up the bills and flung open the cash register, staring towards the ceiling with a furrowed brow as he mentally worked through the correct number to give back to Podrick in change.

"Just keep the change." Podrick's tone was cutting, obviously sharpened by both his fatigue and his obvious misgivings at dragging out a conversation with the motel clerk.

Sansa pushed past Podrick, leaning over the counter as the clerk began to retreat away, lighting up his cigarette with a flick of his lighter as he turned back towards the TV.

"Excuse me, you don't happen to have a pair of tweezers do you?"

The motel clerk gave her a sideways glance before shifting his eyes down at her exposed arms, examining the blotches of dried blood running up and down her skin. Clearly unfazed, the clerk dug through a drawer, pulling out random tools and setting them on the counter with a thud before taking out a pair of needle-nose pliers.

"No tweezers. Will this work?"

Swallowing hard and suddenly feeling every bit of glass in her flesh, Sansa silently nodded her head and smiled politely before taking the pliers and clutching them against her chest. Without another word, the motel clerk turned back towards the tiny TV, grumbling as he fumbled with the antenna and puffed on his cigarette.

With each step towards their room, Sansa felt the glass digging deeper into her skin and contemplated how she'd managed to spend the last five hours with glass cutting into her. As Podrick fumbled with the motel key, Sansa swept her eyes behind them, wondering if she might find the scarred man lurking in the darkness, somehow having caught up to them. To her relief, she found only a silent emptiness half filled with a layer of fog.

The outdated motif was echoed through their motel room; the carpet was an obnoxious mauve and teal color and splotched with stains from God-knows-what. The outdated peach and lavender striped wall paper had become tattered near the corners of the ceiling. The faint smell of cigarette smoke had been futilely covered up with floral-scented air freshener while the stained lamp shade put off a dull, yellow sphere of light. It vaguely reminded her of the type of room Norman Bates might rent out to some unsuspecting female for the evening. Podrick fell back on the bed; the hideous paisley patterned bed cover rippled softly under his weight as he brought his hands up to his face.

Setting his sweater down on the bed, Sansa paced towards the bathroom and flicked on the light. With a buzzing sound, the fluorescent light attached to the ceiling fluttered on. Standing in front of the mirror for the first time since the beginning of the evening, Sansa contemplated herself. Her white dress was splotched with blood; whether it was hers or the blood that had come off of the scarred man, she knew not. Her arms looked as if someone had scrawled across them with a red Sharpie, the lines of dried, flaking blood ran down her arms and legs.

Across the tops of her thighs, her legs were beginning to bruise where the scarred man had rested his weight on top of her. Sansa let her fingers run across the bruises, pushing lightly into her thighs where the skin was beginning to turn a light shade of purple. Unbidden, Sansa's mind suddenly meandered to the way his body felt on top of her, his weight pressing into her and his chest flush against hers. She had been powerless underneath him, rendered helpless as she surrendered to his control. Pushing harder into her skin, Sansa forced the thoughts to flee from her mind as they were replaced with the pain shooting down her legs.

With her hair a tangled mess, her eyes heavy with fatigue and grief, and her skin appearing almost sickly under the fluorescent light, she looked like an absolute disaster.  _'You look pretty.'_ Sansa envisioned her mother behind her, contemplating her with a soft smile while gently running her fingers through Sansa's hair. Since fleeing into the night, Sansa hadn't cried. The tears had welled in her eyes, but the heavy sobs she had expected to overtake her never came.

Instead, she had spent most of the evening enveloped in a silent daze as if she were in a nightmare and any moment she might wake up. But she never did wake up, and instead she tumbled through the darkness, the aching in her chest leaving her breathless and choking on the tears as they threatened to spill forth from her eyes. But now, standing in front of the mirror without the reflection of her mother behind her and not knowing if she would ever see that reflection again, Sansa felt the tears emerging from her eyes. In a steady, unrelenting stream, the tears gave way to sobs - deep, heavy sobs which doubled her over and left her gasping for breaths.

Collapsing to the floor on her hands and knees, Sansa let her grief take her as she fell to her side and pulled her knees to her chest. Suddenly, Podrick was hovering over her, blotting out the horrendous fluorescent light and pulling her up from the floor. For many moments, he held her silently in his arms, clearly at a loss for what to say or how to possibly comfort her in this moment. Instead, he let her cry and waited patiently until her sobs had lulled to a silent stream of tears. Gently, he pulled Sansa to her feet and grabbed the pliers from the bathroom countertop.

"I really can't imagine that it's comfortable having shards of glass in your body."

Breathing out a laugh, Sansa shook her head, loosening the last two tears that hung in each of her eyes. Carefully, Podrick took her arm in one of his hands and began pulling free each piece of glass and setting it next to the sink. Sansa winced in pain each time the pliers met her skin but sighed her relief when the glass was pulled free. Podrick worked methodically over each of her arms, squinting as he scrutinized each and every gash before he squatted to the ground and began pulling the glass from her legs. As he worked, she could feel his hands trembling and saw that he was blushing furiously as his face hovered near the hemline of her dress.

"There. That's the last one. The smaller pieces will work their way out, eventually."

Sansa stared at the tiny pieces of glass coated in a thin layer of glistening blood. There had to be two dozen or more that Podrick pulled from her arms and legs.

"Thank you, Podrick."

Sansa's voice was hardly above a whisper as she pulled a faded teal washcloth from the towel rack and submerged it in hot water from the sink. Gently, she ran the warm wash cloth over her gashes on her arms left by the shards of glass. The warm sensation prickled her skin with goose bumps but did little to soothe the stinging pain as the water trickled over the cuts and scrapes which were a constant reminder of all she had endured earlier that evening. Once she was done with her arms, Sansa rung the wash cloth out in the sink and watched as the water turned pink with clouds of blood. Slowly, she lifted herself up on the countertop, sitting next to the sink as she worked over the gashes on her legs. Once finished, she pushed herself from the countertop and felt her lips curl into a smile as she realized she could now move freely without the throbbing pain from the glass.

Retreating to the bed, Sansa plopped down next to Podrick, who was sprawled out with his eye lids slowing rising and falling as he slowly allowed himself to succumb to sleep. Sansa pulled her knees tight to her chest and with a sigh snatched up the remote from the particle board night stand situated next to the bed and flicked on the TV, desperate for any distraction she could get. After flipping through a dozen or so channels filled with black-and-white static, Sansa turned the TV off and slumped back on the bed, groaning as she felt the worn, paisley bed cover scratch against the skin of her legs.

She had hardly had her eyes closed for more than a minute when a loud knock came at the door. Podrick shot up immediately, whipping his head around to the door with his eyes so wide she thought they might roll right out of his head. Sansa could hear her heart beat loud in her own ears as her breath caught in her chest. As Podrick turned his terrified stare to her, Sansa slowly shook her head, silently pleading with him to remain absolutely still and let whoever was at the door move on.

Another knock came, this time louder and more insistent and accompanied by a nasally voice.

"It's Eric from the front desk. I need you to move your car."

Shaking his head and sighing out a deep breath of relief, Podrick pushed himself from the bed and started towards the door. Leaving the door chain on, Podrick cracked the door just enough so that his face could hover in the few inches of space allowed by the chain. From behind Podrick, Sansa could see the motel clerk shifting from one foot to the other, his eyes meeting her with a curious stare before looking back at Podrick.

"Yeah, sorry. Sometimes our lot floods when it rains. You probably want to move your car to the other end of the lot."

Podrick nodded his head curtly, the annoyance in his voice lingering heavily over the hesitance but his tone polite nonetheless.

"Yeah, sure. Thanks for letting me know."

Shutting the door and pacing across the room, Podrick snatched the keys from the night stand before giving Sansa a reassuring smile and a playful roll of his eyes.

"Gotta move the car. I'll be back in a second."

Sansa nodded her head nervously and considered jumping from the bed, insisting that she should go with him. Instead, she stayed where she was and leaned forward in the bed, pulling Podrick's sweater towards her. Sansa lifted it to her chest, feeling the fabric soft against her skin. She could smell his cologne, the same cologne he had always worn. The familiar scent seemed to calm her as she pulled the sweater on over her head, the fabric swallowing her up and wrapping her in comfort.

In the silence of the hotel room, Sansa waited, shifting her impatient stare towards the curtained window next to the door. For many moments, she watched, expecting to see the head lights of Podrick's car stream through or to hear the crunching of the gravel under his tires, but neither came. With each passing minute, Sansa felt her heart beat faster in her chest with a deafening thud as it pounded hard in her ears.  _He should be back by now. Something's not right._

Trembling, Sansa jumped from the bed, her legs shaking as her feet hit the floor. As she reached the door, Sansa stopped, turning around and contemplating the pliers that were resting next to the sink. Dashing across the room, Sansa snatched up the pliers and slowly stepped out into the night; the air hitting her skin was chilly and thick with humidity, but most of all, eerily still. Her breath came frantic as she saw Podrick's car still at the other end of the lot, the engine running and the head lights cutting through the darkness. In an instant, her legs were carrying her towards the car, her knees wobbling like Jello as her feet shifted precariously underneath loosened gravel.

As she approached, Sansa noticed that the driver side door was open, the incessant dinging of the door chime ringing loud in her ears over the hum of the engine.  _No. No. God. Please, no._

In a frenzy and whining out desperate pleas, Sansa dashed to the passenger side, circumventing the car completely as her breaths started coming ragged through her trembling lips. From her left, Sansa heard a whimpering sound and the soft scuffling of gravel. Whipping her head over her shoulder and clutching the pliers tight in her hand, Sansa saw a form slumped on the ground in front of the wrought iron fence surrounding the pool. With stumbling steps, she ran towards the form. As she made her way closer and with each step, she soon realized the form to which she was frantically running was Podrick.

Her blood ran cold through her veins as she found Podrick sprawled across the ground on his back, his breaths coming shallow from his chest, which was saturated in blood. As she collapsed to her knees in front of him, Podrick stared at the sky above, his eyes wide and his mouth opening and closing yet no words coming.

"Podrick! Podrick, please! Look at me. Podrick!"

Bent on hands and knees over him, Sansa rested one hand on each of his cheeks and gently turned his head towards her, tears spilling forth from her eyes. As if suddenly seeing her, Podrick focused his stare on her, his eyes beginning to glaze over and darken.

"Run, Sansa."

Podrick's words came as a rasp from his lips, rattling through his throat as blood gurgled from his lips.

"No. No. Podrick, please don't. No. I'm so sorry. We shouldn't have stopped. Podrick, don't."

Cradling him in her arms, Sansa cried out, her words ringing into the night as she pleaded with him. Once more, the crunching sound of shifting gravel roused her attention as she snapped her head up. Instantaneously, she recognized the face that met hers. With his hair tousled loose from the slicked back pompadour, the man had removed his glasses, his eyes no longer bug-eyed but still wide blue pools now flooded with an icy cruelty. He had also removed his flannel shirt and was wearing a white T-shirt, splattered with blood and exposing his arms, both of which were covered with tattoos: colorful images of pin-up girls, intricate Dia De Los Muertos Catrinas and sugar skulls, thick, bolded letters which formed sayings and quotes. The man from the gas station had seemed harmless to her, but now, standing in front of her with a pistol in hand, Sansa knew she had been dreadfully,  _stupidly_ wrong.

Podrick had shifted from underneath her and propped himself up on his elbow, the blood staining his lips a crimson red as it ran glistening from the corners of his mouth.

"Ru-ru-run, Sanss-"

Collapsing to the ground with a groan, Sansa felt Podrick gently push her away with a trembling, bloodied hand as the man from the gas station started towards her, a wild, almost feral look flashing in his baby blue eyes.

Crawling backwards on all fours and desperately scrambling to keep a hold on the pliers, Sansa struggled to push herself to her feet as her legs shifted under the gravel, her knees and palms of her hangs scraping against the jagged rocks on the ground. When she finally got to her feet, Sansa ran, stumbling as she turned her head over her shoulder to see the man from the gas station sprinting after her.

As she reached the end of the lot, Sansa could hear him behind her, his boots pounding against the gravel with a crunch that echoed through her ears. She could feel his fingertips brush against her back as he reached out to grab her. Quickening her pace with everything she had, Sansa bolted forward, her legs throbbing in pain as she ran from the motel lot down the slope of a hill towards the abandoned factory, the pliers clutched tightly in her right hand. The grass beneath her feet was slick from the rain, and the mud beneath it was saturated with rain water. From behind her, she heard the man groan as he slipped to the ground, landing with a soft thud and shouting loudly after her, his voice as maniacal as the look she found gleaming in his eyes.

"I'm going to win, Sansa. Just quit while you're ahead."

With her shoes caked in mud, Sansa ran frantically towards the road that ran behind the factory. With sharp, heavy cackles, the man from the gas station was laughing, his voice something akin to a shrill scream. The sound made her blood run cold and beckoned her heart to beat from her chest as she darted between the rusted cars that made up half of the perimeter around the factory.

Turning her head behind her, she found the man pacing down the hill in fast strides, no longer running but gaining on her all the same as she ducked between the cars, desperately making her way towards the road. Breaking free from the maze of decrepit cars, Sansa ran alongside the wall of the factory, stumbling over pieces of scrap metal that were strewn about the ground.

From behind her, she saw as the man climbed over the tops of the cars, jumping from one to the other, his feet landing on the rusted hoods with a deafening thud that echoed through the empty factory. Willing her legs to move faster despite the burning in her lungs, Sansa made her way towards the road. Through the darkness she saw a pair of headlights piercing through the night, small at first but growing larger as she neared the road.  _Let them stop. God, please let them stop._

Sansa felt her heart leap into her throat as the car slowed to a halt as she ran frantically towards it.

As she approached, both the driver side and passenger doors opened in unison, the faces of the men emerging frighteningly familiar and stopping Sansa in mid stride as she stumbled to a halt. Both of the men had been sitting next to the scarred man at the Royce's party; the driver had been the one speaking to the scarred man, whispering in his ear and glaring at Sansa, and the passenger had been the one smoking the cigar in the arm chair.

The men started towards Sansa, their strides quickening as she spun on her heel and darted down the road, away from the car and the abandoned factory. From her right, the man from the gas station seemingly appeared from thin air, sprinting towards her and gaining steadily. This time when the man reached for her, his hand clamped down on the back of Podrick's sweater, which was loose against her body.

Yanking her backwards, Sansa tumbled to the ground, hitting her head against the wet earth and feeling the pliers tumble from her hand. She could see the men from the car running towards her as the man from the gas station hovered over her, his eyes gleaming with exhilaration and a devilish smile forming about his lips, exposing his chipped tooth. As he reached for her, Sansa's hand frantically searched for the pliers. The man lowered himself on top of her and struggled to contain her flailing arms and legs. Suddenly, she felt the metal of the pliers brush against her fingertips. Sansa reached with everything she had for the pliers, pulling her arm so hard that she thought she might dislocate her shoulder. Wrapping her hand around the pliers, Sansa brought her hand up, and in a forceful, sweeping motion caught the man in the cheek with the pointed end of the pliers. With his eyes wild with fury, the man from the gas station lifted himself from her and stumbled backwards, the flesh of his skin hanging loosely from his right cheek, which was bleeding profusely as the other men approached.

"Stupid  _fucking_  bitch."

Turning his head to the side, Sansa saw as the man spit out a glob of blood before wiping his mouth, the blood smearing across half of his face. Flipping over and crawling on all fours, Sansa tried desperately to regain her feet. Suddenly, she felt a tremendous force as the man from the gas station threw himself on top of her, pushing her to the ground before flipping her over. Fisting the fabric of the sweater, the man lifted her slightly up off the ground. Sansa felt the powerful blow of the back of his hand come hard against her cheek, sending a sharp pain through her head while her vision blurred to a tunnel of black.

As quickly as he had thrown himself on top of her, Sansa felt as the man was being ripped from off of her by one of the men from the car - the one who had spent the evening conversing with scarred man. As she drifted in and out of consciousness, Sansa felt the warm sensation of blood pouring over her cheek as she heard the man's voice come calm but deliberate as he wrapped his hands around the man from the gas station's throat.

"The Hound explicitly told you that he wants her brought to him unharmed, did he not? So you do what? You bring her back bloodied. Do you have a fucking death wish, you goddamn psychopath?"

The man's voice met her ears muffled as she slipped further into the darkness behind her eyes. However, she heard him all the same.  _Please, no, not him. Not the Hound. The scarred man is the Hound._

With the black filling her vision, Sansa felt her body being lifted from the ground. She felt as though she was floating, her limbs becoming weightless as she finally shut her eyes and surrendered her consciousness, but not before hearing the man carrying her towards the waiting car chuckle out his words in a menacing laugh.

"I hope you like dogs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO much for all the wonderful feedback on chapter 1. It is truly appreciated and quite exciting!
> 
> I realize this fic is VERY much AU (this chapter especially). There is a lot of wonderful SanSan fan fiction out there, but I wanted to do something completely different. And that something different is this fic. I realize I'm taking a risk and I'm entirely okay with that.
> 
> Once more, THANK YOU for reading and showing some love!


	3. Chapter 3

 

**Gods and Monsters**

Chapter Three

* * *

**_Finding herself in an impossible inky darkness, Sansa frantically threw her arms forward, feeling her way along a wall with soft fingers and tiny, shuffling steps tentatively leading the way. She groaned loudly and sucked in her breath as she pushed her right foot forward, stubbing her toe on the unforgiving and entirely unknown expanse in front of her. With trembling hands, Sansa pressed her fingertips against the wall and over what felt akin to wood; the lacquer finish rippled against the subtle peaks and troughs of the grain. Faithfully following the wood grain down and down further, she reached the handle of a door, the cold metal prickling the skin of her fingers._ **

**_Slowly, she pushed through the door and stepped into a small, dimly lit room. A sphere of light emanated from a small lamp which illuminated a desk, papers strewn about carelessly and rustling softly in a phantom wind. Behind the desk a large window extended from floor to ceiling. Larger at the top than the bottom, the window was an imperfect rectangle steadily sloping into an incongruous shape. The sky outside was blood-red, a crimson dawn which bled out into the retreating darkness of night. Stark against the sky were the silhouettes of trees; leafless, gnarled branches reaching towards the bedeviled sky like crippled limbs. In front of the window stood a man, his back turned to her and his arms crossed broodingly about his broad chest. As the fiery glow of the vermilion sky gradually filled the room, Sansa realized where she was; recognizing the coffee stained manila folder resting on the corner of the desk, the scribbling of notes tossed carelessly about, and the man standing in front of the window holding the weight of the world on his shoulders and the burden of duty heavy in his pondering mind._ **

**_'Home! I'm home!' Sansa started towards her father, but quickly found that her limbs felt like cinder blocks moving through water. With all her might she struggled to bridge the gap of space between her and her father's motionless form, but despite all her effort, her legs managed only mere inches. As she opened her mouth to speak, the man turned around, but the face that met hers was not the tender face of her father. Rather, it was a face half-ruined with a mass of scarred flesh glistening angrily in the scarlet shadows. Cavernous black holes filled the space where his eyes should be and his mouth curled into an impish smile._ **

**_With the weight settled in her legs finally lifting, Sansa stumbled backwards, tripping over her own feet and falling towards the floor. Manifesting from the darkness, two hands reached out towards her, cradling her body before she hit the ground. As the shadowed form pulled her to her feet, Sansa could feel it gathering her hands behind her back, holding her firmly by the wrists._ **

**_"Sansa, wake up."_ **

**_Podrick's voice met her ears as an ethereal whisper, but she heard him all the same. With her heart soaring, she wanted to twirl around and see his face, to throw herself into his arms and run away from this awful place, away from the scarred man who was working his way towards her in bounding strides._ **

**_"Wake up!"_ **

**_Podrick's voice was a scream this time and fractured with a seething cruelty which seemed to bore into her. As she struggled against him, Sansa felt his hands sharply squeezing into her wrists like the blades of a knife, digging into and tearing away at the delicate flesh._ **

**_"Wake up, you fucking bitch!"_ **

**_His voice had deepened to a maniacal growl, hardly human as it pounded through her head. Suddenly, she felt her body being violently shaken; her head bouncing against something firm, yet soft as it slightly gave way to each blow. Slowly, the ruby colored darkness faded away and with it went the scarred man, her father's desk, and the hope of home._ **

"God fucking dammit, wake the fuck up!"

Sprawled across the back seat of a car, Sansa's eyes snapped open to find the man from the gas station straddling her, one knee on either side pressing hard against her ribs and his hands fisting the loose fabric of Podrick's sweater. With steady, unrelenting movements, the man slammed her down savagely against the back seat of his Buick. Even with her eyes open wide and the sound of her whimpering filling the car, the man continued his assault, lifting her up before smashing her down, all the while screaming for her to wake up as his baby blue eyes blazed with cruelty. The blood on his cheek had dried to a deep red, almost black, but as he screamed the wound reopened, oozing out a stream of fresh blood that splattered about the back seat in tiny droplets.

As she reached her hands up to push him away, Sansa realized her wrists had been bound tightly together with a thin, braided rope. As she struggled feebly against the man, Sansa could feel the rope dig sharply into her skin along with the wetness of blood emerging about her wrists. With the man still shaking her violently, Sansa saw the blur of the car door behind him swing open with a creaking groan.

"That's enough, Leon!"

Suddenly, she felt the weight of the man from the gas station, Leon, lift off of her as he was pulled from the Buick and dumped roughly to the ground, plumes of dust billowing up from his discarded form. Sansa's head was swimming, the light spilling into the car bright and blinding in her eyes as she struggled to focus. After a few moments, she felt as one of the Hound's men pulled her from the back seat of the car. She hadn't the strength to struggle against him so instead she let her body go limp, her limbs becoming dead weight as the man slid her across the back seat and placed her next to the car.

Sansa squinted her eyes against the oppressive noon sun piercing through voluminous white clouds smattered across the sky. Where the evening before had been chilly and humid, the heat of the sun was dry and hot against the exposed skin of her face and legs. Behind the car, a lonesome two-lane highway stretched in a straight shot towards both horizons, every now and then rising and falling over modest slopes of the land. Off in the distance and on either side of the highway, remote mountain ranges towered over the barren desert valley.

Dotted throughout the dusty expanse of desert were tufts of greasewood bushes and cactus scrub. Beyond that, the land was bleak and undoubtedly uninhabitable for at least another 20 miles. With a gritty layer of dust covering it, the old Buick had been pulled far off to the side of the road. Sansa lifted her eyes to the blinding sun riding high in the sky, ruthlessly bathing the desert in its sweltering heat. It had to be midday, she knew. What she didn't know was exactly where they were. The desert landscape extended from California well into Nevada and if they had driven through the night, for all she knew, she could be standing in the middle of Death Valley, in the hands of the Hound's men and burning alive in the heat.

With the pounding of the sun and a throbbing pain in her head, Sansa struggled to remain on her feet and swayed ever so slightly until she felt her weight rest against the side of the Buick which was roasting in the dry heat.

The Hound's men stood in silence, watching the desolate highway with impatient eyes and arms crossed about their chests, every now and then exchanging glances as Leon paced frantically in front of the car, mumbling nonsensically to himself under his breath. With each step, he kicked up clouds of sand and dirt which drifted to Sansa, sticking to the thin layer of sweat glistening on her body and caking in the blood about her bound wrists. For what felt like an eternity, they stood beneath the angry sun, waiting and sweating, sweating and waiting; waiting for what, Sansa did not know.

The Hound's men had remained quiet, muttering expletives from time to time as they wiped sweat from their brow and studied the horizon; west or east, Sansa could not tell. The twin horizons boasted the same features, shadow-less as the sun rode to a peak in the sky. Sansa wanted to retreat in the Buick even if it was an oven in the desert. She could feel her skin beginning to burn, the pink tint already emerging with the promise of future discomfort should she continue to stand beneath the sun. With her skin white as the driven snow, the prospect of suffering the sweltering heat inside the car seemed better than a severe sunburn.

Before she could ponder it further, a black car emerged on the horizon, its form blurring in the heat rising off of the scorched pavement of the highway. As the car neared them, Leon ceased his pacing in mid stride and ran his fingers through the strands of his greasy pompadour, the gel holding it in place melting beneath the sun.

"It's about goddamn time!"

Slowly, the black Mercedes sedan approached, growing from a wavy mirage on the horizon to a foreboding harbinger of her uncertain fate. Sansa's stomach churned as the car pulled off from the road and slowed to a halt alongside them, throwing up clouds of dirt as the tires crunched beneath the baked desert earth. With heavily tinted windows, Sansa could not see how many people were in the car nor could she make out any movement from within as the vehicle's engine was turned off.

As the driver's side door swung open, Sansa felt her heart beating at a furious rate inside her chest, the sound of it steadily pulsating loud in her own ears. The man who emerged from the car was unfamiliar to Sansa; medium height and lean of build, he was perhaps in his mid-thirties, with dark, shoulder-length hair slicked back in subtle waves to reveal a slightly receding hairline. A neatly trimmed mustache and goatee adorned his rough face which was lightly lined with age. Despite the devious arch of his heavy brows, the man's eyes were aglow with a jovial softness.

With dark pin-striped trousers and a pressed white, button down shirt, the driver of the sedan squinted against the sun, beads of sweat already glimmering off of his bare forehead. As his strained eyes shifted away from the glaring sun, the man spoke, his voice deep and masculine, but colored with a sort of humor.

"Well I certainly didn't dress for the weather. It's fucking hot out here."

Snorting his impatience, Leon paced angrily towards Sansa, yanking her roughly by the arm and pushing her with a forceful shove to the ground in front of the driver's feet.

"Here. Delivered as promised. Now I want what was promised to me. Two grand cash." Leon lifted his index finger to the gash about his cheek and glared through narrowed eyes at the driver. "And I expect to be compensated for my troubles."

Wordless and unmoving, the driver let his eyes fall to the ground where Sansa was struggling to lift herself up to her feet. The man squatted to the ground in front of her as she managed to push herself to a seated position. Furrowing his brow, he cupped his hand under her chin, turning her head and scrutinizing the dried blood caked around the cut across her cheekbone where Leon had struck her. Sansa let her eyes fall away as his stare roamed down her form, evaluating the bruises across her legs which were now heavy purple blotches set against red gashes where the glass had been. From the periphery of her vision, Sansa saw the man's jaw clench tightly as the playfulness retreated from his eyes and was replaced with an instantaneous flash of irritation.

Slowly, the man released his hold of Sansa's chin and lifted himself to stand. Even from where he stood, Sansa could feel the anger permeating off of his body in waves as his hands curled into fists. Unfazed, Leon continued his verbal assault on her, relaying how she had ran from him, attacked him with a pair of pliers, and how it was necessary that he incapacitate her by whatever means needed.

Crossing his arms about his chest and leaning against the black sedan, the driver turned his stare towards the Hound's men, cocking his head to the side as he spoke.

"And where were you two when she was being 'incapacitated'?"

Sansa saw as both of the men let their stares settle on the horizon behind the black sedan, each with their lips pressed together in a matching grimace. Shaking his head, the driver did not wait for a response, but rather shot his scowling glare towards Leon.

"You get paid when the girl is delivered to the Hound personally. That was the agreement. As far as compensation for your troubles, something can be worked out once the Hound sees her alive and well with his own eyes."

Leon hesitated, shifting from one foot to the other as his eyes darted between the Hound's men and the driver of the sedan before settling a fuming glare on Sansa. The look behind his eyes made Sansa's blood run cold through her veins despite the blistering heat of the sun. No one had ever looked at her with so much hatred. Her father had once told her that perpetrators of the most violent and gruesome crimes often had black eyes. It was the evil behind their eyes, he had told her; the evil that emanated from the eyes and cut through to the soul.

With Leon's baby blue eyes darkening to an impossible shade, Sansa understood what her father had told her all those years ago. The evil behind Leon's eyes was unimaginable and unwavering as he stared right to the core of her being. As he started his frantic pacing once more, she had half thought that Leon might lunge towards her, but instead he started towards the Buick, pulling open the passenger door while groaning out expletives. Laughing, the driver of the sedan pushed himself from the car and took sweeping paces towards Leon. In one swift motion, the driver reached towards Leon's back pocket, yanking free the pistol that had been tucked there and wrapping his arm tightly around Leon's neck.

"Oh no, no. If you're wanting to see the Hound, then you're coming with me."

With Leon in a choke hold, the driver dragged him towards the black sedan, pulling open the door with his free hand and violently shoving him into the backseat of the car before slamming the door shut behind him. Pulling free the rounds of Leon's loaded pistol, the driver tossed the bullets to the ground before chucking the empty gun towards one of the Hound's men, forcing the man to stumble forward to catch it.

"Do something with that. You'll follow us back. Rest assured, gentlemen, I'll be dealing with the two of you later."

Wordlessly and with matching scowls of defeat, the men slowly retreated back to the beat up Buick, glancing coldly at Sansa as they went. Still seated on the ground, Sansa stumbled forward as she swung one leg out from underneath her and struggled to regain herself. In quick steps, the driver pushed his weight against her and steadied her to her feet. Pulling open his car door, the man pulled out a bottle of water and uncapped it before pressing it to her cracked lips, tilting her head back with gentle hands.

"Here, girl. Drink."

With eager pulls, Sansa drank down the icy water and relished the cooling sensation that spread down her chest as she drank. Truly, nothing had ever tasted so sweet and with just that simple gesture, she felt a tiny bit better, although loathe to admit it. When she pulled her lips away from the water bottle, Sansa breathed in deep breaths, filling her lungs with the heavy dead heat. The man regarded her with curious eyes; his stare not leering, but lingered all the same as he wrapped one his hands firmly around her arm and led her to the car. As the man opened the back car door, Sansa could hear Leon mumbling incoherently to himself as he stared mindlessly out the window.

With the driver gesturing towards the open door, Sansa instinctively pulled away from him, struggling against his increasingly insistent push as her breaths came ragged in her chest and she fought to flee from him. As she dashed sideways away from him, the man swiftly caught her by the arm, his fingers clamping down iron tight as he yanked her back towards him and pushed her into the side of the car. With Sansa sandwiched between him and the car, the man loosened his grip slightly and began to speak, his voice low and calm and his tone matter-of-fact.

"There's no two ways about it, you're coming with me. But you're a smart girl, so I'm sure you already know that. You can make this harder on yourself by struggling against the inevitable. Or you can be a good girl and get into the car. The choice is yours, sweetheart. I, for one, would rather you make my life easier by opting for the latter. What do you say?"

Sansa considered his words, understanding the danger lingering behind them and knowing that he spoke truly. There was no way she was getting out of this situation, not now at least. When she and Podrick fled into the night, Sansa had held onto the frantic hope that her father was out looking for her, desperately searching and refusing to give up until she was safely back at home. As the hours melted away and that prospect was seeming bleaker by the moment, Sansa let go and surrendered herself to the situation, too tired and broken down to fight any longer. Lifting her head, she stared into the man's eyes, demanding him to meet her gaze. And though his stare was as resilient as hers and she could sense he could and would hurt her if push came to shove, Sansa saw a flicker of pity splinter through his eyes and with it she felt the satisfaction tug at the corners of her lips in a bitter half smile.  _Good. I hope you feel bad for this. Even if just a little bit…_

Momentarily contented with what she saw in his stare, Sansa climbed into the back of the car and slumped down on the leather seat which was blessedly cool against the heat her body had soaked up from the unrelenting sun. To her right, Leon sat, still ranting to himself and shifting about erratically in his seat. Without a doubt, the man was demented and that scared Sansa more than the driver and the Hound's men combined. And maybe, just maybe, it scared her more than the Hound himself.

Sansa pushed herself as far away from Leon as she could, resting her head against the black tinted window and pulling her arms tightly around her chest. As the driver slid into his seat, Sansa could see him watching her through the rear view mirror, his eyes shifting back and forth between her and Leon. Pulling his seatbelt over his shoulder and turning the car on, still the man watched her before turning around in his seat and focusing his darkened stare on Leon.

"If you fucking try anything, I will slit your throat from ear to ear and watch as you drown in your own blood."

Leon seemed not to hear him, but instead chewed on his finger nails, his legs bobbing up and down as he twitched in his seat. Sansa knew little of the human psyche except the bits and pieces of forensic psychology her dad would share with her. He had been fascinated by how the criminal mind worked; all part of his job, he had said, but she knew there was some morbid curiosity to his studies as well. Sansa did not share in her father's curiosity of the disturbed human mind, but she knew with a certainty Leon was not only chronically afflicted with some severe mental illness, he was currently having a psychotic episode.

As they started down the lonely desert highway, Leon's rambling gradually became louder as he clawed at the gash in his cheek, tearing further at the flesh which elicited gushes of blood. Turning her gaze to the front of the car, Sansa saw the driver crank up the volume knob on the car stereo, releasing the baritone of Johnny Cash's voice before slumping back in his seat.

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and tried her best to pretend she was somewhere else, anywhere else. With her breaths coming slower, Sansa began to feel the stinging pain of the rope cutting into her wrists. Any movement of her arms pushed the outsides of her wrists hard against the thin rope, cutting deeper into her skin. As best as she could, Sansa tried to keep her arms still, but found even that was becoming difficult. Her cheek itched as the blood began to dry around her wound. When she scratched at it, the skin opened up once more and released a stream of fresh blood. Sansa wished she could sleep, but she didn't know what was worse; the nightmare behind her eyes or the waking nightmare she had come to live in. Suddenly too afraid to drift into sleep despite her body desperately wanting it, Sansa remained awake, listening to the Man in Black croon his commiseration with Folsom State prisoners.

Lost in a silent daze, devoid of thoughts, Sansa felt the car shift as the driver navigated turns at what had to be a speeding pace. To the right, and then the left, left again before another right, Sansa felt the inertia pull on her body. She knew not how long they had been driving, but it had to be three hours at least before she could feel the car beginning to slow its speed, the pulls of the turns becoming less forceful. Through the heavy tint of the windows, Sansa couldn't see where they were, but she knew for a certainty they had reached their destination, however temporary it may be. As the man driving pumped hard on the breaks, Sansa flew forward in her seat and into the back of the driver's seat, the sweat from her thighs slick against the leather and offering little by the way of friction to stop her from flying forward. She winced as the side of her face slammed into the back of the driver's seat and scraped against the leather, once again reopening the gash on her cheek to trickle a beading of blood. With her hands bound at the wrists Sansa had done her best to shield her face from the collision which was unavoidable, but painful all the same.

Tucking one of her elbows underneath her, Sansa pushed herself up off the floor of the car and wiggled her way back into the seat. Leon watched her struggle with a smirk playing about his cracked, bloodied lips and his blackened eyes eagerly soaking up the sight of her wincing in pain and struggling to regain herself.

Swiftly and in one hurried motion, the man driving pushed the gear shift into park and unbuckled his seat belt before pushing open the door and jumping from the car.

A column of light filled the car momentarily as his door remained open. Through blurred vision, Sansa squinted against the light, unable to make out where they were. When the driver shut his door, Sansa could hear a muffled exchange between two, perhaps three men. With the timbre of their voices nearly identical, it was hard to tell, but succeeded in making her stomach churn. Sansa could hear the sense of urgency in their voices. Wherever they were, it seemed they had arrived behind schedule.

The man driving had been surprisingly gentle with her, almost apologetic. In stark contrast, Leon was vicious and wildly unpredictable, a loose cannon of psychosis ready to go off at any moment. The men on the other side of the car door could be like the man who was driving or they could be like Leon; truly, it was a toss of the coin and the thought was making the back of her throat burn with the promise of vomit despite her empty stomach. As she strained to listen to what the men were saying, Sansa felt something cold and metallic against the right side of her neck; the stinging pressure was eliciting a steady oozing of blood to flow from the skin of her throat. Slowly, Sansa shifted her eyes towards the sensation. The periphery of her vision was filled with the sight of Leon pushing a large butterfly knife against the soft flesh of her throat.

Sansa fought every instinct to jerk away, to push open the door of the car and flee. Every muscle in her body tensed as she willed herself to remain as still as possible.  _Still. Be still. If you move, he'll hurt you._

It wasn't a question in her mind, but rather a certainty and the slow, lingering hiss of his words reaffirmed her thoughts. With his knife shifting and pushing hard into her throat, Sansa could feel Leon's breath hitting her cheek in warm, moist spurts as he leaned in to speak, pushing her hair from off her shoulder and brushing his lips against her ear.

"I could kill you. I could say that you tried to run, tried to fight, and that I had no choice, but to slit your throat open. What do you think of that, you stupid little slut?"

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed hard as salty tears streamed down her cheeks to come splattering against Leon's knife, baptizing the blade in blood and tears. Despite her best efforts to remain calm and collected, Sansa's breaths were heaving out of her chest, her body trembling uncontrolled and frantic. Letting his knife fall to the floor of the car, Leon coiled both of his hands around her throat; his fingers were cold as icicles and squeezing hard against her windpipe, choking off her breath. Sansa squirmed under his grasp, panicking as her empty lungs burned within her chest. She clawed desperately at his hands around her throat, digging her fingernails into his skin as hard as she could. Undaunted, Leon squeezed harder, his eyes once again almost black and delirious with mania. Slowly, Sansa's vision began to blur as a steady calm descended over her. The sound of her whimpering became increasingly faint as her eyes rolled to the ceiling of the car. From behind, she felt the door of the car give way to the weight of her body.  _This is it. I'm falling into death._

As the falling sensation continued, suddenly Sansa felt herself gasping for breath, the pressure on her throat released in an instant. As she hit the cold, concrete ground next to the car, Sansa realized she had been falling, quite literally. The car door behind her had been opened up by the driver and Leon had released his grasp on her throat to let her tumble from the back seat of the car.

With deep, hyperventilated heaves, Sansa filled her lungs with air, expanding them so fast and hard that she thought her ribs might break. As her eyes focused once more, Sansa's vision was filled with a pair of black shoes. She followed the shoes up a pair of pin striped trousers and up further until she saw the face of the driver. It was only then that she realized she had careened from the car to land sprawled out on the ground at his feet, her throat dribbling blood across his polished shoes.

Wordlessly and with his stare deliberate, the driver extended his hand to her. Sansa settled back on her legs and reached her bound hands up to meet him. Swinging his other hand to his back pocket, the driver pulled free a folded buck knife. With a gasp, Sansa wiggled away from him, snatching her extended hands back and cradling them protectively against her chest.

"I'm not going to hurt you. Now be a doll and give me your hands. Unless you want to be tied up all night. Personally, that's not my sort of thing, but to each their own."

As the driver playfully shrugged his shoulders and reached for her bound hands, Sansa heard the grumbling of laughter from two other men in the room. Only then did she look up and realize they were in a large garage which held three other cars, all black Mercedes sedans with dark tinted windows. Beyond that, the garage was empty and immaculately clean; above, long rows of fluorescent lights hung on chrome chains situated between concrete support beams while the walls were panels of thick corrugated steel flush against white painted cinderblocks, every sound echoing loudly throughout the vacuous space. Behind her were a series of four doors, wide enough to let one car through and each hooked up to its own automatic door opener. Situated on the opposite wall were two heavy steel doors, each with a numbered key pad.

Sansa held her breath as the driver flipped open his buck knife and slipped it under the frayed rope that was wrapped tightly around her wrists. With her eyes squeezed shut, Sansa felt a strong pull against the back of her wrists followed by the immediate release of the pressure of the rope digging into her skin. Opening her eyes, she saw dried blood flaking from her wrists in the places where the skin had been rubbed raw.

Still on her knees and rubbing her wrists, Sansa's eyes fleeted around the garage. The two men the driver had been talking to were unfamiliar to Sansa, but shared a similar style of dress; flawlessly creased dark trousers, starched white shirts adorned with satin ties, mother-of-pearl or platinum cuff-links, exquisitely shined shoes, cleanly shaven faces with hair slicked back. Both of the men stared at her with something between pity and fearful hesitance. It was the fear and hesitance gleaming in their eyes that frightened Sansa, as if they were keenly aware of the fate she awaited and were afraid  _for_  her.

With her own fear hitting her like a ton of bricks and suddenly feeling sick to her stomach, Sansa gasped out sobs, the tears gushing from her eyes in a steady, unbidden stream which flowed down her cheeks. She had tried to remain resilient and calm, softly reassuring herself that perhaps someone would find her and save her from this awful nightmare. Yet in this moment, bloody, exhausted, terrified, and uncertain of what awaited her behind the heavy steel doors of the garage, Sansa crumbled and let herself slump to the floor on hands and knees, her chest heaving out sobs which echoed loudly throughout the garage.

Much to her surprise, the men quietly remained where they stood and averted their eyes, either sweeping them towards the ceiling or floor, but avoiding her entirely nonetheless. After a few moments, Sansa felt a gentle tugging at her arm as the driver pulled her from the ground, placing an arm around her waist as he led her towards one of the steel doors.

"Come on. He has been waiting rather patiently for you. And that's not something I get to say very often."

Instinctively, Sansa knew who  _'he'_ was. With this knowledge, she felt as though she might vomit as her fear filled her to the brim. Pulling his arm away from her waist, the driver turned towards the other men whose brows lifted and eyes widened as they stared at the twin gashes about Sansa's neck and cheek.

"Go get Leon. He's in the back seat. Make sure you frisk the bastard first though!"

With quick nods, the men did as they were bid and headed towards the car in hurried strides while the driver deftly punched in a series of codes on the numbered key pad. As he pushed through the heavy door and into a dimly lit corridor, Sansa felt as if she was reliving her nightmare, feeling her way through the darkness towards the Hound who she sensed was awaiting her in the shadows. The driver effortlessly navigated his way through a series of tunnels, leading her by the arm as he zig-zagged through the underground network of concrete corridors. As they worked their way further through the tunnels, Sansa began to hear the faint echoing of voices which continually grew louder as she was led down a long corridor lit with the flickering of wall sconces. At the end of the corridor was a heavy wooden door inlaid with iron hardware and outfitted with yet another numbered key pad. Sansa could hear the cacophony of men's voices emanating from the other side of the door; roaring laughter, bantering shouts, and the buzz of boisterous conversations.

With a polite smile, the driver pulled open the door and led Sansa through. For the second time within the span of a day, Sansa felt as if she had stepped back in time, transported to a prohibition-era drinking establishment tucked away from prying eyes and eager ears. Situated somewhere within the system of tunnels, the room effortlessly exuded the dingy elegance of a speakeasy lounge; old brick walls created the perimeter of the expansive room, pieces of mortar having been chipped away with time, while the high ceiling above was a series of exposed wooden beams, painted a glossy black which reflected the flickering of gas lamps situated at various points along the brick walls of the room. The floor was a series of wide planks of scratched and worn hardwood, covered here and there with faded, mismatched oriental rugs.

Situated against the far wall across the room, tufted brown leather couches partitioned off part of the room, creating a seating area centered around a series of small wooden tables, flickering tea lights and cigar filled ash trays placed about each. The seated men talked animatedly with one another, hands swinging through the air as each worked to talk over one another and to be heard over the noise in the room. Adjacent to the seating area and running the expanse of the longest wall, a mahogany bar created the focal point of the room; the dark wood was inlaid with square panel molding and beautifully offset by a shiny brass foot rail. Above the heavy lacquered bar top, a series of dome glass pendant lights hung from the ceiling, casting a dim glow about the bar which was reflected in the ornately framed mirror hung behind. On either side of the mirror three rows of shelves were crowded with every assortment of liquor one could imagine, the bottles illuminated and glowing likes gem stones set against onyx. The man tending the bar looked to be in his mid to late twenties. With the sleeves of his white shirt pushed up to his elbows, the bartender bounced between the ten or so men seated at each of the wooden bar stools, each of them nursing manhattans or martinis between pulls on cigarettes or cigars.

Through the thick veil of cigar smoke that wafted throughout the room, Sansa could see a series of tables on the side of the room closest to the heavy wooden door. Seated around each of the four tables were perhaps eight men with another six or so crowded behind them. Amongst ash trays and half full cocktail glasses and beer bottles, the center of each table was littered with poker chips and tattered cards haphazardly strewn about. And stark against all of it was the dull chromic shine of guns; pistols of all shapes, sizes, and calibers set in front of every other man as an unspoken threat. With a cigar hanging in his mouth, one of the men turned his cards over one at a time, deliberate and with a smug smile pulling at the corners of his lips. With each turn of the cards, a diamond appeared in consecutive order, one after the other, starting with the eight of diamonds and ending with a forlorn looking queen of diamonds clutching tightly to her flower. Without hesitation, the man leaned forward in his seat, greedily encircling the chips with thick arms and pulling them towards his barreled chest. Infuriated and turning a deep shade of crimson, the man seated across the table bound to his feet, flinging his chair hard into the gentleman standing behind him. With a hearty laugh, the man with the winning hand pulled the cigar from his mouth and motioned towards the chair careening backwards.

"Oh sit down! Not my fault you're a goddamn rabbit. You about took out one of the railbirds there."

Sansa had expected the other man to snatch up his loaded pistol and fly across the table in retaliation, but instead she looked on in amazement as the other man's scowl melted away into a sweeping grin as he lifted his empty cocktail glass to his lips, draining the contents before slamming it on the table and causing poker chips to bounce away from him.

"You're a son of a bitch, you know that? Fuck, I need another drink!"

Still hanging in the shadows, Sansa and the driver went relatively unnoticed as men loitered about the room, many swaying with intoxication and puffing on cigars, joking and laughing heartily with one another. Sansa sensed the camaraderie between the men who filled the room, each dressed in a similar style of dark trousers, white button down shirts, and some form of embellishment, either a luxurious tie, bejeweled cufflinks, or antique pocket watch. Watching as she contemplated the men meandering about the room, the driver leaned in towards Sansa, his voice swelling with pride.

"You've come to us on a special night. Tonight we have men to make."

Sansa's brow knitted in confusion at his words, the term entirely unfamiliar to her and instantaneously setting her ill at ease. Seemingly reading her mind, thought by thought, the driver chuckled as he leaned in once more while gently nudging her forward to emerge from the shadows as they pushed through the crowded room.

"Tonight we welcome two more men of honor into our ranks. To make a man is to initiate him into the hierarchy of our organization. He's one of us, bound by blood; a man to be respected and feared by others."

Sweeping her eyes across the room and evaluating the men she found there, Sansa chewed her lip and swallowed hard. Her heart began to beat loudly in her own ears, thundering over the sounds of laughter, arguing, and music that was pouring from the center of the room. Perhaps it was the driver's tone, something between a proud declaration and a cautionary threat. Or maybe it was the way his look lingered over her, patiently awaiting a reaction that she was stubbornly content to never give. Either way, her stomach flipped as they walked past the card tables and the men surrounding them lifted their eyes to her, jaws opening and closing in unison with cigars and cigarettes hanging precariously in the gaps of their mouths. Once again she was met with eyes filled with a sort of empathetic fear. They dreaded something; whether it was something that awaited her or awaited them, she knew not, but she sensed it was the former. One by one the men lifted their eyes as their voices fell to hushed whispers; a secret passing from lips to ears, ears to lips and kept far from her as it was breathed about the room in puffs of smoke.

With a firm pull at her arm by the driver, Sansa was led deeper into the room, which was hazy as the heavy blanket of smoke wafted through the air, stinging her eyes and filling her lungs with the scent of cigar, whiskey, and sweat. As they reached the center of the room, Sansa saw the men at the bar swivel in their seats as their eyes lifted to her over the cocktail glasses pressed to their lips. Like a domino effect, each man in turn shifted in his seat, some shaking their heads with knowing smiles while others considered her with a fleeting glance before returning undaunted to their respective conversations.

Easing past the bar, Sansa spotted an alcove tucked away in the furthest corner of the room, open to the rest of the expansive lounge save for a series of arched openings supported with wooden columns. With her intuition tugging insistently at her stomach, Sansa all but knew what awaited her in the alcove. The room was largely shadowed and filled with smoke, yet her eyes had searched for him all the same; darting to each darkened space of the room and peering through the clusters of men hovering about. However something told her that the Hound would see her long before she saw him. And she would know it too. She would be able to feel his stare penetrating her skin, cutting through bone, flesh, and blood to see right to the core of her. She would squirm beneath it and feel the urge to flee, but she doubted her legs would obey and carry her away.

The driver stopped before reaching one of the arched openings of the alcove and turned towards Sansa, sighing deeply as he assessed her form and lifted one of his hands to dab at the blood smeared across her throat. Motioning his head towards the alcove, the driver removed his hand from her throat and placed it on the small of her back, gently urging her forward.

"Right in there."

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut as she felt her knees beginning to tremble, each of her steps wobbling as she slowly placed one foot in front of the other towards the alcove. The driver was behind her, barring her path should she turn to flee. Somehow she doubted she would get very far if she did try to escape. The men wandering about the room were the Hound's men and loyal to him; loyalty bought by fear, she sensed, but she was unwilling to defy him nonetheless. Sansa lifted her head, loath to slink into the alcove defeated and petrified. She decided that when she met the Hound, face to face, she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her terrified. Despite the resilient promise to herself, Sansa could do little and less to quell the shaking that had besieged her body. What more, her breaths were coming thin and ragged from her trembling lips.

Approaching the nearest arch of the alcove, Sansa saw that thin, gossamer drapes had been hung from the arches, feebly offering a veil of privacy yet still allowing the occupants of the alcove to monitor the activities of the room. The driver reached an arm out from behind her, pushing open the curtains and nudging her through.

The alcove, much like the rest of the lounge, was dimly lit by two tiffany lamps situated on side tables. Two walls of the alcove boasted seating; an assortment of tufted leather club chairs with a heavy wooden coffee table at the center. After drifting through a sea of unfamiliar faces, Sansa recognized the man seated in the alcove; his face burned into the darkness behind her eyes and threatening nightmares whenever she meant to rest her weary mind.

He was much the way he was when she first encountered him; perched commandingly in the outskirts of the room, silently retreated from the festivities bustling about him yet somehow maintaining the center of it all. Despite having separated himself from the others, the room still revolved about him, the other men entertaining themselves all the same yet profoundly aware of the Hound's presence.

Strapped across both of his shoulders was a black leather holster, cradling two pistols tightly beneath his arms, one on each side of his broad chest. Like the others, he wore a white shirt and pin striped trousers, his shoes black, shined, and gleaming with the reflected light of flickering candles placed about the coffee table in front of him. Unlike the others, his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. He wore no satin tie or platinum cufflinks or any other form of embellishment. Where the other men had slicked back their hair, the Hound's raven colored strands hung loosely to his shoulders and had been swept to the side to cover his scars. If she hadn't already known, Sansa would have never guessed by his appearance that he was the Boss of a crime syndicate, that every other man in the room answered to him. But she imagined he had designed his world to be this way; allowing himself the chance to work from within the shadows, quietly and masterfully maintaining his authority. No wonder no one knew anything about him, not even her father whose career had centered around the Hound and his organization for the past two years.

He was like the eyes of God, watching and waiting, seeing all and going noticed by few. However, they knew he was always there and they feared him. And in this moment, knowing nothing about him, Sansa feared him too, suddenly forgetting her stubborn resolve to feign otherwise. It didn't matter, she knew. She could hold her head up high, stand firm, and speak loud, but he would know. He would see the truth of what she was, lost and terrified, and that truth would be kindling to the fires that seemed to smolder within him.

Sansa was startled to find that somehow the memory of him had distorted in her mind. She had forgotten the way he filled a room with his presence and commanded attention without having to mutter a single word. Not to mention his size. Somehow she had diminished that in her mind as well. She knew he was tall and built of solid muscle, but as he sat in the sectioned off alcove of the room, he was so much larger than she could have hoped to remember. The Hound's form nearly engulfed the entire leather upholstered club chair in which he was seated, legs open and elbows resting heavily on his knees as he clutched a cigar cutter between his thumb and forefinger.

Battered bloody, covered in a layer of dirt, and with her hair a mess, Sansa somehow felt inadequate in his presence. Standing in front of him, she began to feel every cut, scratch, bruise, and gash about her body; from the wound on her cheek to the bruises on her legs, she felt them all at once and held him responsible. She had not suffered them all by his own hands, but because of him they had befallen her all the same. He had given the word, working from his shadows, and created the living hell that had become her life, sending a psychopath after her instead of retrieving her himself.

An older man was seated to the Hound's left, thinning grey hair slick against his balding head. With his hands folded softly in his lap and his eyes meeting Sansa's, the old man leaned into the Hound, muttering his words in hushed tones as the Hound cut the tip of his cigar in one swift motion. Striking a match, the Hound lifted the flame to the tip of the cigar, puffing at the end in his mouth and filling the air with the fragrant plumes of smoke.

As the Hound lifted his eyes to her, Sansa felt the breath catch in her chest as her fear gripped her. Slowly, he pulled the cigar from his mouth, letting the smoke meander from lips as he exhaled a deep sigh. Settling in his seat, the Hound's eyes roamed her form and with each pass, his eyes narrowed and his jaw seemed to clench tighter. Sansa had let her eyes fall away, petrified to meet his stare and trying desperately to steady her breaths. In a fleeting moment of courage or perhaps curiosity, Sansa let her eyes drift from the floor, across the coffee table, and up the Hound's seated form until her gaze settled on him. His mouth was twitching as his lips were set in a furious scowl; the anger pale in comparison to the rage that flickered in his icy grey eyes. Terrified, Sansa couldn't peel her eyes away. She wanted to, desperately she wanted to, but she couldn't. So instead she kept his stare; her eyes filling with tears as his filled with fury, her lips quivering with fear and his twitched with God-knows-what.

Shaking his head and snorting out his breath in agitated spurts, the Hound snuffed out his cigar in an ash tray, pushing the lit end into the glass so hard that the cigar nearly snapped in half. As the Hound bounded to his feet, Sansa felt her legs begin to give out underneath her and she stumbled backwards into the driver. Wordlessly and with his anger filling the small alcove with a suffocating heaviness, the Hound snatched up the half-full cocktail glass sitting on the coffee table, knocking his head back as he emptied the drink in two gulps before slamming it down on the table and crossing the alcove in a few pounding strides. Sansa flinched as he came towards her, expecting him to unleash his anger on her, but instead he stopped in front of the driver, flashing his furious stare at Sansa before turning towards the driver.

"Where is he?"

The Hound's words were a low growl, not the booming bark Sansa had expected. Before the driver could speak, the background noise of the lounge had dropped off and the room was filling with the maniacal demands of Leon. In an instant, the Hound pushed through the gossamer curtains of the alcove, the soft sound of ripping as he tore through them glaring in contrast to the bellowing of his voice as he turned his head over his shoulder to the driver.

"Bring the girl out here, Bronn."

Following his orders, the driver, Bronn, led Sansa from the alcove, sliding over a wooden chair and pushing it against the wall before motioning her to sit in it. Shaking like a leaf, Sansa gratefully did as she was bid and lowered herself into the chair, wrapping her arms tightly around her chest and clutching at the fabric of Podrick's sweater. Outside of the alcove, a large area of space in the lounge had cleared. Men silently perched along the wall, lifting themselves from card tables or swiveling in their chairs to watch as Leon was roughly thrown to the ground at the Hound's feet.

Leon convulsed on the ground, tearing at the wound on his cheek while mumbling to himself. The Hound lowered himself to the ground, crouching down and fisting his hands in the front of Leon's shirt so the maniac was forced to meet his enraged stare.

"What was it I told you before you left?"

The Hound's words were a seething rasp, his eyes burning wild with intensity while the corners of his mouth twitched uncontrollably. Either unfazed or unconcerned with the imminent danger he had found himself in, Leon snorted his derision, releasing a gush of blood to stream down the now gaping wound of his cheek and trickle to the floor. His words were punctuated with deranged laughs.

"You said you wanted the Stark girl. Well, here she is. So what if I broke her pretty face open? The stupid bitch got what she deserves. You're lucky I didn't fuck her into the ground while I was at it."

With a violent jerk, the Hound pulled Leon closer to him, almost nose to nose as his infuriated voice boomed through the room.

"What the  _fuck_  did I tell you before you left?"

Soft at first, Leon snickered out a chuckle which gradually gave way to an uncontrolled cackling laughter. For many moments, the room was silent as Leon howled with laughter, his body heaving as he struggled beneath the Hound's iron tight grip. The Hound stared at him, boring through him with unblinking eyes that were wide with fury before turning his head slightly to hover over his shoulder.

"Bronn, what did I tell Leon before he left?"

Pushing himself from the wall, Bronn sauntered over next to the Hound's side, crossing his arms about his chest with a darkened smile creasing his lips. Bronn let his stare wander to the ceiling as he rested a balled fist under his chin, feigning contemplation as he paced back and forth.

"Let's see. I seem to remember you explicitly saying you did not want her hurt. Of course, there was some profanity and death threats thrown in there too, but not wanting her hurt stands out in my mind."

Without reply, the Hound threw Leon back to the floor before lifting himself to his feet and sweeping his eyes towards Sansa, the unburned side of his face visible to her. With tears beginning to wet her eyelashes, Sansa met his stare before quickly letting her eyes fall to the floor as her fingers clutched the sleeves of Podrick's sweater hanging loosely about her wrists. In an instant, all the eyes in the room seemed to hover on her; the men in the room regarded her with heavy stares peering from the shifting shadows of the room.

As Leon writhed about the floor, the Hound paced towards her, his steps slow and deliberate. With her eyes lowered to the ground, she saw his silhouette looming over her in the periphery of her vision, blotting out the meager light that struggled to fill the room. Sansa sensed he was waiting for her to look at him, to let her eyes roam up his imposing form to meet his unyielding stare. With tears spilling over her cheeks, Sansa tried to lift her eyes, but found she couldn't do it. Instead, she let her eyes remain fixed to the floor at her feet. Reaching up to swipe away the tears, the loose sleeve of Podrick's sweater fell from Sansa's wrist, exposing the bloodied marks where the rope had rubbed her skin raw.

Before she could brush the tears from her cheeks, the Hound grabbed her by the forearm and tugged slightly until her arm was extended, her wrist turned over and exposed to him. The Hound stepped towards her until his legs were flush with hers and pulled her other arm from her lap, pushing up the sleeve and scrutinizing the matching wound about the other wrist.

As he let go of her arm, the Hound crouched down in front of her, one knee bent to the ground and the other brushing against her leg. Even in a crouching position, he still towered half a foot taller than her. For many moments, he said and did nothing, but let his eyes move about her form; first to her cheek, then her neck and finally down to her legs. Back and forth his eyes ran the circuit about her face and body.

With a gentleness that surprised her, the Hound placed one of his large, calloused hands under her chin, lifting her tear-filled eyes to meet his insistent gaze. With his jaw set firmly in an angry scowl, he tilted her head to the side to expose the gash on her cheek, silently evaluating it until his eyes lowered to the cut on her throat. With one hand still under her chin, the Hound reached to his back pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. In slow, methodical motions, he blotted at the blood on her throat, pulling away slightly when she winced in pain. Dropping the handkerchief to the floor, the Hound ran his fingers along her throat before letting the palm of his hand press slightly against her skin as his eyes flew up to meet hers. Her throat was tender where Leon had nearly squeezed the life out of her and he had apparently left his mark with emerging bruises. Hesitantly, Sansa held the Hound's stare, which had softened slightly as he spoke, his voice a low whisper and his words, she sensed, for her ears only.

"Did he do this to you?"

His eyes searched her demandingly as his nostrils flared with each exhaled breath. Trembling, Sansa hung her head, once more breaking the connection coming between their eyes until suddenly feeling the Hound grab her by her shoulders, his fingers gripping her tightly. Instead of a hushed whisper, his voice roared this time, clearly growing impatient.

" _Look_  at me. Did he do this to you?"

Although she was beginning to surmise the Hound did not mean to harm her, at least not in this moment, Sansa thought it best not to try him. Taking a deep breath and swallowing hard, she lifted her head, letting her eyes settle directly on the Hound's irritated stare. Wordlessly, she nodded her head, solemnly and without letting her eyes roam away.

"Did it hurt?"

The question seemed absurd to her.  _The man hit me across the face, nearly slit my throat with a knife, and choked me out. Of course it hurt._ Sansa smiled internally at her own inner thoughts. She wished she had the gall to repeat them. Instead, Sansa once more responded to the Hound's question with a silent nod, deciding it best to keep her thoughts to herself. With her gentle nod, the Hound stood up abruptly, leaving her side at once as he strode towards Leon.

"The girl says you hurt her."

As if conjured from his descent into madness, Leon pushed himself up from the ground, jumping to his feet as he snapped his malicious stare towards Sansa, the mania settled heavily in his blue eyes. In one swift motion, the Hound grabbed Leon by the throat, lifting the man so that the toes of his boots scraped against the floor.

"Don't look at her. You look at me."

Struggling feebly, Leon kicked his legs towards the Hound, whimpering as he struggled to breathe. Dropping Leon to the floor with a thud, the Hound pulled a pistol from his holster and aimed at Leon. Without hesitation, the Hound pulled the trigger, firing a round into Leon's right knee. Despite the maniac's blood curdling scream, Sansa heard the Hound seethe out his words acrimoniously with a rasping growl.

"That's for hurting her."

Without missing a beat, the Hound pointed, aimed, and fired at Leon's left knee, sending the man squirming across the floor, blood pooling beneath the ruins of his knees as he kicked his legs frantically.

"That's for hurting her when I told you not to."

In the midst of it all, Sansa's trembling hand flew up to meet her mouth, stifling the scream that hovered in her throat. As her eyes searched the room, she found that the other men looked on undeterred and with grim satisfaction gleaming across their faces as they puffed on cigars or sipped from drinks.  _This is nothing new to them. They've seen this before._

The thought terrified Sansa and for the first time, she let her mind slowly wrap around the reality of the predicament she was in. Her father had described the Hound as vicious and calculated, moving about the shadows and rendering himself untouchable. And now she understood, seeing it with her own eyes. Leon was crazed, no doubt, but was also slowly bleeding out on the floor, howling in pain and pleading for help. Callously, the Hound looked on, without a shred of remorse, and his men looked at him as if he were a God because of it, praising him with silent nods and half smiles. As she let her hand fall from her mouth, Sansa turned her eyes towards the Hound as he pushed his pistol back into his holster and turned towards two men leaning against the wall nearest to Leon.

"Shut him the fuck up. We have men to make."

With sweeping grins and stiff nods, the two men pushed themselves from the wall and scooped Leon up underneath his arms. The men pulled him off to the side, the blood beneath his legs a dark smear against the hardwood. One of the men removed his white shirt and gagged Leon until his screams were muffled moans.

Sansa watched as two other men pulled over a small table and covered it with a black table cloth. The Hound stood where he was, his arms crossed about his chest as Bronn stepped forward in front of the table. From his back pocket, Bronn liberated two Ace of Spades cards and placed them face up on the clothed table before motioning over two men from the crowd that had pushed closer to the table.

The two men that stepped forward were older, each with grey dispersed through their slicked back hair. With them, two younger men stepped forward, each in their early to mid-twenties Sansa guessed. While all the men in the room were dressed similarly, these younger men were dressed slightly different, but exquisite nonetheless. Outfitted in tailored black paints and matching black waist coats, these men wore black dress shirts. In fact, they were dressed entirely in black, from head to toe yet wore no embellishments in the form of ties, cufflinks, or pocket watches. With a smug smile, Bronn turned towards the older men.

"Can you vouch for them?"

Each older man in turn nodded their head before assertively speaking to the loyalty and dedication their younger protégés had exhibited. Sansa watched as the Hound looked on from the shadows, in control yet uneager to partake in the pomp and circumstance of what she assumed was an initiation ritual.

"Alright, glocks on the table."

The two older men stepped forward and each placed a glock pistol next to the matching Ace of Spades cards before clapping the younger men on the back and disappearing into the crowd of men.

Reaching once more to his back pocket, Bronn pulled forth his buck knife and motioned the young men forward. One at a time, Bronn took the right hand of each man in his before lightly pulling the blade of the buck knife over the palm of their hands. With faces stoic as stone, the men did not flinch, did not pull their hands away, but instead stared straight ahead, their eyes unreadable and their lips pressed tightly together.

Wordlessly, each man hovered his palm over one of the Ace of Spades, letting fat droplets of ruby colored blood splatter onto the card. With their left hand behind their back and their right hand extended palm up, Bronn placed the bloodied Ace of Spade in the palm of the young men's right hands. Without prompt, a man standing off to the side stepped forward and handed Bronn a cocktail glass half full with a clear liquid. Wordlessly, Bronn dipped his buck knife into the glass and dribbled droplets of the liquid onto each of the Ace of Spades before pulling out a lighter from his pocket.

With a flick of his lighter, Bronn brought the flame to meet the cocktail of blood and liquor pooling on the Ace of Spades cards. Slowly, the cards began to burn, the sides curling slightly as the flames spread. Bronn's voice was loud, his words gracefully pronounced as he paced slowly behind the small table, his hands folded casually behind his back.

"Silence, Omertá, above all else. We honor it, we live by it, we die by it. No God, no Devil, no soul on earth can save you if you dishonor the silence. You come to us as boys. Tonight you are made into men of honor and you die men of honor, loyal to the grave. We are your priority, your world, the center of your Universe. If we ask of you the truth, the truth you give. If we ask you to spill blood for our cause, then there had better be blood. We do not associate with men of the law. We do not associate with men outside of our organization unless they are a friend of ours. A member's wife is sacred to him. You do not betray that sanctity. Wives of members are treated with respect. The outranking members are treated with respect. You do not make decisions on your own, you are given tasks to follow and follow them you will. Show humility. We want you as you are, not you with an inflated ego. Show strength and courage. We want you as brave men, not scared boys. And above all else, silence."

As his monologue wore on, the young men began to wince slightly in pain as the cards smoldered in their bloodied palms. With a dark determination gleaming in their eyes, the young men clenched their jaws and steadied their stares to invisible focus points hovering somewhere far off in front of them. The men about the room seemed to puff with pride as they looked on, nodding their heads here and there at particular points throughout Bronn's monologue.

"The blood unites us. Death and death alone releases you from this unity. Should you betray these oaths, may your soul and body burn as the card burns."

In steady, monotone voices, the young men repeated Bronn's words, sucking in their breaths as the flames licked against their skin.

"Should I betray these oaths, may my soul and body burn as this card burns."

With that, the young men dropped the cards to the ground and stomped out the flames with their feet. Breathing out sighs of relief, the young men smiled gratefully as they received claps on the backs, painful handshakes, and playful chides from the other men who pushed forward to welcome them into their ranks. The room seemed to be abuzz and stirring until the Hound stepped forward, pushing himself from the shadows and emerging into the open space of the room, his scars creating grotesque silhouettes about his face in the meager light. The cheerful chatting died off until the room was quiet once more. The young men, the newly made men, nodded respectively to the Hound, eager to show their reverence.

Strangely entranced by what she had just been witness to, Sansa had all but forgotten about Leon until she heard his muffled whimpering and the soft thuds as he banged his head against the brick wall. As the Hound crouched down and pulled Leon up from the floor, Sansa was aghast at how pale Leon had become. His face was bloodied from where he had scrapped his skin against the brick wall, the white shirt functioning as a makeshift gag was saturated and red with his blood. Roughly and in one swift motion, the Hound pulled the shirt from Leon's mouth.

"You heard the words they said."

With a mouth full of his own blood, Leon spat at the Hound's feet and pulled his mouth into a monstrous smile, his teeth stained crimson as he hissed his words venomously.

"I don't play by your rules, Dog. I'm not fucking part of your little Cosa Nostra."

Sansa looked on as the Hound's lips curled into a darkened smile, his eyes narrowing to steely slits as he pointed towards the young men still standing next to the clothed table clutching their singed hands.

"No, but they are. And they need to make their bones."

_Make their bones._ Once more Sansa was at a loss for the term, but she could have guessed what the Hound was getting at. Somehow she sensed whatever "making bones" was, it didn't bode well for Leon, who was being re-gaged by a few men as the Hound paced towards the new initiates. When he reached the table, the Hound snatched up the glocks, one in each of his massive hands, and handed them to the young men, their eyes wide and considering the Hound with something between awe and veneration.

"You live by it and you die by it. Drown your fucking oaths in his blood. That's your first task as made men. Make it hurt and clean up after yourselves."

Sansa felt a soft hand rest on her shoulder, squeezing lightly. Sweeping her stare up, Sansa saw the old man who had been sitting in the alcove. Standing next to her, he was much shorter than she had expected although every man in the room was short in comparison to the Hound. His suit was immaculate, timeless and worn with pride, she sensed. However, his eyes betrayed a sort of weariness as if his life had been replete with tragedy. Smiling warmly, the man pulled her from her seat and looped his arm in hers.

"Come, child. This isn't something you want to see."

For the first time since this whole ordeal had begun, Sansa felt a flush of relief; relief that she wouldn't be forced to watch Leon's mortal demise and relief that she was being regarded with a gentle kindness.

The old man led her into the alcove, extending his arm in a gesture bidding her to sit. Once more, she obeyed and settled into the leather seat. Groaning, the old man lowered himself in an arm chair adjacent to her and pulled a smoldering, half-smoked cigar from an ashtray on the coffee table. The man puffed at the end of the cigar before turning towards Sansa.

"I find in my age, I don't have the stomach for that shit anymore." Tilting his head towards the main area of the lounge, the man smiled and pulled the cigar from his mouth, admiring it. "I'd much rather sit in here, smoke my Cohiba Esplendido, and talk to a sweet girl."

Sansa laughed softly and settled slightly in her seat, allowing herself to rest against the plush back of the arm chair.

"Thank you. You've been kind to me."

Lifting his pale green eyes to her, the old man exhaled a puff of smoke. "Save your thank you's. There's no reason not to be kind to you."

As the Hound pushed through the shredded gossamer curtains, Sansa felt her body become rigid again as her back pulled away from the chair. Once more, the room was filling with his brooding temperament and seemed to darken slightly with his presence. Settling himself into the large club chair across from her, the Hound kept his eyes steady on Sansa as Bronn handed him a manila folder. Nodding curtly in approval, the Hound tossed the folder on the coffee table and pulled it open before lifting his eyes to Bronn.

"Go find Mirabelle and bring her here."

As Bronn cantered from the room, the Hound began thumbing through the contents of the folder, slowly turning over each of the pages as he scrutinized them through narrowed eyes. Page after page he did this, once in a while taking a sip of his freshly prepared cocktail or taking a pull from a newly cut cigar. They sat in silence, all three of them; Sansa, the old man, and the Hound. Settling back in his seat, the Hound stared at Sansa, watching her as he puffed on his cigar and his eyes roamed her form.  _He likes watching me squirm. He knows he frightens me and he likes it._

With that thought roaming her mind, Sansa willed herself to remain calm, counting her breaths so that they came even.  _One, two, three, inhale. One, two, three, exhale._

Still the Hound watched her, a smug half smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as he seemingly puzzled out what she was doing. Leaning forward and resting forearms on knees, the Hound plucked one of the papers from the manila folder and let his eyes roam over it.

"Sansa Stark. University of Oregon. School of Music and Dance. You've declared double major in Bachelors of Arts in Dance and Bachelors of Music Education. Full ride too. Impressive. Says here, you are formally trained in ballet. You play piano and sing."

Tossing the paper down on the table, the Hound lifted his eyes to the old man.

"Seems I've found myself a little bird, likes to sing and dance. How fucking sweet."

The Hound laughed mockingly as he pressed his cocktail glass to his lips, pulling eagerly at the amber colored liquid. Sansa felt her hands curl into fists. She was tired; tired of being toyed with and tired of not knowing what fate lay ahead. With her fear suddenly fleeing, Sansa leaned forward in her seat, matching the Hound's willful eyes.

"Am I supposed to be scared? That information isn't hard to find."

Throwing his head back, the Hound filled the small alcove with his roaring laughter. Shrugging his shoulders in acquiescence, the Hound shoved the manila folder towards Sansa.

"The little bird is not impressed. Look for yourself then."

Slowly, Sansa leaned forward, keeping her eyes steady on the Hound while he considered her with a smug smile. The first few pages were her applications to University of Oregon, letters of intent, scholarship and housing paperwork. With her hands beginning to tremble, Sansa flipped through copies of her family's birth certificates, social security cards, enrollment records for every school she had attended from grade school all the way to high school. Tearing through the papers, Sansa saw her father's entire financial history laid out page after page followed by transcripts of recorded phone calls, copies of affidavits her father had requested, stacks of testimonies. On it went and with each frantic turning of pages, Sansa felt her heart beating faster in her chest and her brow beginning to bead with a cold sweat. As she turned over another page, Sansa gasped when she saw her father's handwriting; copies of his notes in the Moriarti case were laid out in front of her. Feeling sick to her stomach, Sansa closed the manila folder and shoved it across the table as her vision blurred with tears.

"The mighty Ned Stark. District Attorney. I bet he thought he was clever, keeping this case under wraps for the past two years. I bet he thought I'd be in for a big surprise when he dropped the hammer and johnny law showed up on my doorstep. He's a work horse, I'll give him that, but a fucking idiot. You must get your brains from your mother. Or maybe just your looks."

With angry tears hanging in her eyes, Sansa seethed in her seat.

"My mother was at the Royce's party. What happened to her?"

The Hound shifted his stare behind her, calling out to Bronn as the man strode into the alcove, breathless and smiling gleefully.

"What's the word on Catelyn Stark?"

Sansa's skin crawled as she heard her mother's name exit the Hound's lips.  _How dare you say her name…How fucking dare you…_

She wanted to jump from her seat and lunge at him; release all of her anger in a violent frenzy, she wanted to hurt him the way he had hurt her, but she knew it wouldn't end well for her. Instead, she remained in her seat, chewing her lip and silently wishing away the tears that were hanging in her eyes.

"Mrs. Stark? Dead, probably."

Oblivious to the callousness of his own words, Bronn flopped into a chair adjacent to the Hound, casually draping his arm across the back of the chair. Sansa felt a knot in her throat as she fought the urge to cry, to release all of her anger, sadness, fear, and frustration in sobs. With hyperventilated breaths and her voice scarcely above a whisper, Sansa turned her tear-filled eyes towards the Hound, her lips quivering uncontrollably as she spoke.

"You're a monster."

Her words seemed to sober him somehow as the Hound's stare snapped towards her and his eyes darkened. But beneath the darkness and the fury, she saw the strange stirring of something she hadn't seen in him before. It was the faintest flicker of remorse. As quickly as she saw it, the trace amounts of guilt disappeared in an instant and he narrowed his eyes at her and leaned forward, lowering his voice to a cruel rasp.

"Maybe I am. But look around you, girl, and tell me what you see. To those men out there, I'm God." The Hound lifted his hands and let his stare sweep about the alcove. "Around here, I'm both God  _and_  Monster. You had better learn that quick."

The hurried clicking of heels against wood roused the attention of the room and Sansa turned in her seat to see a woman crossing the alcove. Slim in figure and long-legged, she looked to be in her mid twenties, was tall, maybe a few inches taller than Sansa, and beautiful too. Pin straight and glossy, her jet black hair fell to mid back and her face was framed with heavy, blunt bangs. With tight, black leather pants clinging to her legs and a form fitting red blazer over a white T-shirt, the woman looked like a modernized version of Bettie Page. Her grey eyes were outlined in thick eyeliner, her full lips outlined in bright red lipstick. With exasperated steps, she carried herself into the alcove with a confidence that intimated she was familiar with the men seated about the room.

When the woman's eyes meandered to Sansa, her mouth fell open, agape with horror as she gasped before turning her bewildered stare to the Hound.

"Jesus fucking Christ! Is this how you treat women? Huh? Look at her! She looks like she's been through hell and back."

With an apologetic voice, the woman turned her stare towards Sansa, placing a hand gently on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart, but you do."

Amused, Bronn and the old man chuckled as the woman seemingly flittered into the room and chided the Hound, unfazed by his stature, position of authority, or the way he was staring daggers through her. Clearly agitated, the Hound motioned towards Sansa with his drink in his hand.

"You think I did this?"

Once more, the woman turned her gaze to Sansa, biting her lip as her eyes roamed the collection of bruises, gashes, and scrapes Sansa had been collecting over the last 24 hours. Silently nodding her head, the woman turned towards the Hound, placing a hand firmly on one hip while the other wagged a finger at him.

"Leon. I  _told_  you not to trust that fucking psycho. You're too goddamn stubborn for your own good."

Once more, Sansa looked on in amazement as the woman seemed to fearlessly put the Hound in his place. Settling back in his seat and crossing his arms about his chest, the Hound looked at the woman with irritation pooling in his grey eyes.

"Leon will be handled. In the mean time, take her upstairs and make sure she's taken care of." The Hound shifted his stare towards Sansa, lowering his voice to a threatening timbre before pushing himself from his seat. "We'll continue our conversation over dinner."

After the men had retreated from the alcove one by one, the woman turned towards Sansa, shaking her head as she pushed Sansa's hair from her shoulder and scrutinized the gashes about her cheek and throat.

"Come on. I'll get you cleaned up." With that the woman took Sansa by the hand and led her from the alcove, through a discretely located door, and up a flight of stairs. As they ascended the stairs, hand in hand, Sansa saw light spilling from underneath the door at the top of the staircase.

The door at the top opened to a long hallway, the walls painted a deep burgundy color and lined with framed photos. As they walked down the hallway, Sansa eyed the photographs; black and white pictures of men in news boy caps, smoking cigarettes and standing next to post-World War II cars. Some contained pictures of women, hair pulled up in victory rolls or pin curls, standing next to uniformed men and proudly cradling babies in their arms. With each picture, the years passed by; the style of dress changed, the photos became colored, and the cars became modern. Sansa sensed each photo had a story, each person in the photo had their own history. As they emerged from the hallway and into a large parlor, Sansa quickly realized they were in what seemed to be a house, a rather large house too.

The woman led Sansa through a parlor to the adjacent foyer, which boasted a large staircase and was open to the floor above. Turning over her shoulder as they retreated up the stairs, the woman smiled softly at Sansa.

"My name is Mirabelle. Sorry you were left with the boys so long. If I would've known, I could've gotten you sooner."

Startled by the kindness she was encountering despite her situation, Sansa recoiled slightly.

"Thank you. I'm Sans-"

Sansa's introduction was cut off as Mirabelle turned around, a knowing smile spread about her red lips.

"Sansa Stark. I already know."

Biting her lip as she was led down the upstairs corridor, Sansa didn't know what to make of Mirabelle and beyond that she didn't understand how this woman fit into the scheme of things. Before she could second guess herself, Sansa blurted out the question that burned on the tip of her tongue.

"Are you his wife?"

Mirabelle stopped as she began to open a closed door situated halfway down the long upstairs hallway. Leaning against the frame of the door, Mirabelle's mouth curled once more in a smile, her eyes flashing with curiosity before narrowing slightly as she tilted her head.

"Why do you ask?"

Suddenly feeling as if she had been too forward, Sansa internally chided herself for asking and fumbled over her words as her eyes darted about the floor, her voice timid and hushed.

"You seemed like his wife. I don't know. I guess by the way you were talking to him."

Eyes widening merrily and her lips pulling into a sweeping smile across her face, Mirabelle pushed through the door, pulling Sansa through with her.

"Oh! I like you! You're a smart girl. Smart to notice that not just anyone gets to mouth off to the big, bad Hound."

Feeling a flush of embarrassment, Sansa's hand flew up to meet her lips, her eyes widening as her mouth hung open now sorely regretting her question.

"I'm sorry, that's not what I meant."

Mirabelle threw her head back and laughed heartily as she paced towards a heavy wooden armoire situated across the room, the room which seemed to be her bedroom.

"You've got nothing to be sorry about, baby doll. And you're right. Well, sorta. Mothers, wives, and sisters. That's who gets to mouth off to him. Not even Bronn, his underboss. Obviously, I'm not his mother and I'm sure as shit not his wife."

Throwing open the armoire doors, Mirabelle began sifting through clothes, pulling out random pieces and scrutinizing them before tossing some on the bed and shoving others back into the armoire.

"You're his sister."

With her back still turned towards Sansa, Mirabelle nodded her head as she busied herself with the task at hand.

"You got it."

Sansa had sensed the woman was close to the Hound, there seemed to be a connection between the two of them. Mirabelle seemed to possess the ability to pacify her brother and beyond that he seemed to listen to her. With her jet black hair and steel grey eyes, Sansa could see the resemblance.

_He has a sister. The Hound has a sister._

Sansa pondered the thought. It wasn't unusual by any means, yet somehow it seemed strange to her that a man like the Hound had a sister. Beyond that, Mirabelle seemed nothing like her brother; where he was brooding and violent, she seemed compassionate and vivacious. Tossing a few more pieces of clothing onto the bed, Mirabelle fluttered towards Sansa, taking her by the hands and leading her to the attached bathroom across the room.

"We're about the same height, although you're a little thinner than I am. I think the clothes I have laid out will probably fit you. Get yourself cleaned up. Use whatever you want. Make-up, perfume, brushes, flat irons, and blow dryer are on the vanity. I'm sure you're starving so I'll see if I can find a snack for you in the kitchen. Something to tie you over until dinner."

As Mirabelle retreated from the bathroom, Sansa turned towards her, wringing her hands as she felt her nervousness growing within her.

"Do you live here?"

Mirabelle stopped in midstride and turned slowly to face Sansa. With her brow knitting and the smile melting from her face, Mirabelle sighed deeply and let her eyes fall to the floor. It seemed to Sansa that Mirabelle had suddenly become nervous as well, as if she wanted to tell Sansa something, but shouldn't or perhaps couldn't.

"Sort of. It's complicated. I guess you could say this is a temporary home. We won't be staying in one place for very long though."

_We. She said we._ If she was in any other circumstances, Sansa would have been instantaneously enchanted with Mirabelle, adore her even and look up to her like an older sister. However, she felt a growing sense of disquiet growing within her. She knew little of what the Hound wanted with her, but she sensed something was dreadfully off and whatever she thought she knew and believed to be true was terribly wrong.

Without another word and with Sansa reluctant to push for more details, Mirabelle turned from Sansa and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Mirabelle's bathroom was a girl's dream; neatly organized rows of make-up lined her vanity, a mirrored tray reflected beautiful bottles of perfume, a claw-foot bath tub was perched in the corner near a frosted window. A variety of bath oils and salon-brand hair products filled the window ledge, displayed in orderly rows. Once more, Sansa knew if she were in any other circumstances, she would be thrilled to use Mirabelle's bathroom; shower in a claw-foot tub, experiment with the make-up, brood over which perfume to wear.

As she pulled Podrick's sweater off and let it fall to the floor, Sansa stepped in front of the mirror, scarcely recognizing the reflection she saw there. Sure enough, Leon had left bruised outlines of his fingers across her throat underneath the bloodied gash where his blade has kissed her skin. The lesions about her wrists were caked with blood and sand. The gashes about her legs and arms from the glass were no better; dried blood was flaking away on some spots while others had been reopened to trickle fresh blood. Her legs and face were pink where the relentless desert sun had assaulted her skin.

Retreating from the mirror, Sansa stepped into the shower, pulling the curtain around as she turned on the water which ran off of her body in brown and red streams, stained with dirt and blood. Closing her eyes, she let the water run over her face and sore limbs, wincing at the stinging pain she felt from every cut and gash. Truly, she had never taken a more painful shower in her life and felt the tears beginning to well in her eyes. For as long as she could, Sansa stood under the water, pretending that with the dirt and blood, her painful memories were being washed away, whisked down the drain and far from her mind. However, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't ease the ache in her chest nor could she quell the fear that was rising within her.

She was alone. Podrick had been with her, but now he was gone. He had been left to die in some run-down motel parking lot in the middle of nowhere. His parents would mourn him, bury him in the ground and plead with the heavens, asking why they had to be so cruel to take away their baby boy. His little sister would cry at the loss of her older brother, her protector. Their friends would remember him, talk about all of his quirks and share their favorite memories of him.

She was alone. Her mother was gone too, it seemed. And the Hound had eyes out for her father. No one would be looking for her. No one would know where she was or who she was with. Truly, she was alone. To the rest of the world, Sansa Stark had disappeared, vanished into thin air.

After washing her hair and scrubbing her body, Sansa stepped from the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. Painfully she worked through the knots and tangles of her hair, wincing as the brush caught in the strands. When she emerged into the bedroom, the coolness of the air prickled her skin. Slowly she paced to the edge of the bed and contemplated the pieces of clothing Mirabelle had set out for her. Most of them were dresses, fabric that would cling to her figure or show off her legs. Sansa ran her fingers over the fabric, feeling sick to her stomach as she remembered the previous night when she had struggled with whether or not to wear Myranda's dress to the Royce party.

_'You look pretty.'_

Sansa closed her eyes. She could hear her mother's voice, feel her fingers running through her hair, see her smile in the reflection of her mirror. When she opened her eyes, it was someone else's bedroom she was in, it was someone else's clothes that had been laid out for her, and someone else that would be coming to tell her how pretty she looked.

Sansa felt her breaths coming faster and heavier in her chest as she looked about Mirabelle's room; the harlequin pattered satin bed spread, adorned with embroidered pillows, beautiful fresh cut flowers placed in colorful vases and set out on the side tables beneath expensive looking lamps, ornately framed mirrors hanging about the room and reflecting the light of a small chandelier that hung from the high ceiling. And the clothes. Another woman's clothes set out for her, meant for her to wear. And the make-up and perfume, she was meant to wear that too. In any other circumstances, Sansa would have been thrilled.

But it was under these circumstances that Sansa began to feel anger boiling up within her and her hands curling into fists. With a fury she had never felt before, Sansa swung her arm, hard and heavy, across the side table and the beautiful flowers, so perfect and fragrant, flew from the table. The vase crashed against the ground, the ruin of petals strewn about and the water slowing seeping across the floor. Along with the vase, the expensive looking lamp smashed across the ground, the base cracking into pieces and the light bulb flickering out as it shattered.

Feeling a dark sense of satisfaction beginning to fill her up, Sansa wanted more. She wanted to destroy the beautiful things so delicately placed throughout the room; to smash them into a million pieces and look on at them in all their ruined glory. Before Sansa could continue, Mirabelle flew into the room, frantic and breathless as her arms cradled a basket with food. Her eyes darted about until finding Sansa standing on the other side of the bed, breathless in her own right from the rage building within her.

With wide eyes, Mirabelle slowly paced across the room and around the bed. Hesitantly she reached out a hand towards Sansa, urging her away from the broken glass that had shattered at her bare feet. As Sansa turned towards Mirabelle, she saw the same flickering of remorse she had seen in the Hound; the same grey eyes rippled with the heaviness of guilt and an urge to make Sansa understand.

Tentatively, Mirabelle led Sansa away from the mess of flowers and glass before delicately sitting at the end of the bed, pulling Sansa down to sit next to her. Wrapping her hands around Sansa's, Mirabelle reached up and let her fingers run over Sansa's damp locks of hair.

"Let me do your make up. And your hair. What do you think? I do it for my girlfriends all the time. You'll feel so much better. I promise. I always feel better when I know I look pretty. Besides, my brother will be expecting you soon."

Adamantly shaking her head, Sansa abruptly disentangled herself from Mirabelle's grasp and flew to her feet, her voice enraged and echoing throughout the bedroom.

"I don't want to be pretty for him. I don't fucking care if he thinks I'm pretty or not."

Clearly taken aback by Sansa's outburst, Mirabelle lifted herself to her feet and strode towards Sansa, placing her hands heavily on Sansa's shoulders.

"It's not him you're getting dolled up for. It's you. You don't ever do things just because a man wants you to. You do it for you because  _you_ want to, because it makes  _you_ feel good."

Feeling the frenzy rise within her, Sansa leaned into Mirabelle, locking her eyes pleadingly onto the woman's bewildered gaze.

"I want to go home. Please, just tell him I want to go home. He listens to you. Just tell him, please."

Conflicted, Mirabelle sighed heavily, the same rippling of guilt flashing across her eyes.

"I can't, Sansa. I'm so sorry, but I can't do that. You know that. I may be his sister and I may get mouthy with him every now and then, but I don't get to make decisions."

With hyperventilated breaths, Sansa began to pace frantically, the desperate tears beginning to well in her eyes and spill over her cheeks. Reaching out with a firm grasp, Mirabelle caught Sansa by both arms, stopping her in mid stride.

"Listen. I know none of this makes sense to you right now. And it probably won't, not for awhile at least. There's so much I wish I could tell you. Fuck, there's probably a lot even I don't know. I may be his sister, but that doesn't mean he tells me everything. Things will get better."

Sansa angrily recoiled from Mirabelle, snatching her arms away and turning bitterly towards the woman. Standing in her beautiful bedroom, with her hair and make-up done immaculately, her life seemingly put together just the way she wanted, Mirabelle's gall to tell her that things would get better only succeeded in infuriating Sansa.

"You don't know that. You don't know anything about me. My Dad is a District Attorney. He's probably looking for me now and when he finds me, your brother will get thrown in jail and can rot away in there forever for all I care. He murdered my mother and had Leon murder my best friend. What kind of person are you that you can stand by and let him do things like this? You're just as bad as he is."

With clenched fists, Sansa stood tall as the angry spurts of her breath came heaving from her lungs. However, what pride she felt in herself dissipated as Mirabelle stepped towards her, the woman's eyes darkening with a blaze of her own fury. In that moment, Sansa saw the similarity between Mirabelle and the Hound, sister and brother who shared the same unbridled temper. As Mirabelle spoke, her voice seethed through clenched teeth.

"How old are you? 17, Barely 18? I bet you've lived a real nice life, huh? Is that right? I bet you've always gotten everything you've ever wanted. And I bet you think your Daddy will just swoop in and save you like he probably has so many times before. You don't know jack shit about me or my brother or what our life has been like, baby girl. If you want to keep your pretty little life, you had best not say shit like that again. And definitely not in front of my brother. Just because he brought you here doesn't mean he wouldn't put you in the ground without a second thought."

With her eyes falling away, Sansa stepped slowly away from Mirabelle, clutching the towel tight about her body as she somehow felt transparent and exposed. Softening slightly, Mirabelle eased herself back down on the bed, resting her face in the palm of her hands and sighing deeply.

"You think he's a monster. I heard you say it. You don't have a fucking clue. You want a monster? I'll give you a monster. That would be our other brother, Gregor. That's the  _real_ monster."

Sansa listened as Mirabelle's voice quivered slightly, colored with a strange sort of fear. She hadn't guessed that the Hound would have a sister and was just as intrigued to find that he had a brother as well. Somehow having a family, having people that he cared about, made him less a Hound and more a human. Curious, Sansa stepped forward hesitantly and seated herself next to Mirabelle.

"What do you mean?"

For many moments, Mirabelle remained silent, chewing her lip and staring off in a daze. Unspoken thoughts seemed to rest heavily on her lips, as if she wanted to let them spill off of her tongue, but hesitated. Tensing with her reluctance, Mirabelle turned towards Sansa, her brow heavy with worry and her eyes contemplating Sansa earnestly.

"Just forget it. I probably shouldn't have said anything. Look, I'm sorry. There's just so much you don't understand. So much."

Abruptly lifting herself to her feet, Mirabelle grabbed a black dress from the bed and tossed it at Sansa before gathering up the other pieces of clothing and dumping them in front of the armoire.

"Put that one on. I'll wait outside the room. My brother is probably waiting for you and trust me, the man hates to wait so you'd better be quick about it."

As Mirabelle shut the door, Sansa let the towel fall to the ground and stepped into the black dress, pulling the halter top up and tying it around her neck. As with Myranda's dress, the bust was tight and showed off more cleavage that she would have liked, but the hemline fell to her knees, for that Sansa was grateful. After slipping back into her shoes, Sansa met Mirabelle in the darkened hallway and followed her down the stairs.

When they entered the large dining room, Sansa saw that the Hound was waiting at the head of the table. True to Mirabelle's word, his eyes flashed with impatience as they entered. The large mahogany table could easily seat twelve or more people, but was empty except for two place settings. Like much of what she had seen of the rest of the house, the dining room was dimly lit by a crystal chandelier hanging above the table. As Sansa approached, the Hound pushed himself from his seat, the impatience retreating from his eyes and his scowl softening as his gaze settled on her. Towering over her, the Hound motioned for her to sit at the setting adjacent to his seat. As Sansa hesitantly sat, she saw that Mirabelle had disappeared from the room, the sound of her retreating steps eventually melting away to a silence.

Sansa shifted uncomfortably in her seat as she felt him watching her, silently eying her with his penetrating stare. The tension was broken as a man shuffled into the room.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

Shifting her eyes up, Sansa saw the bartender from the lounge standing next to her with his hands folded behind his back, a gentle smile creasing his lips.

"Tea, if you have any."

The Hound snorted a mocking laugh before shifting his scowl to the bartender, growling out his response.

"You think we drink fucking tea around here? She'll have wine, sweet red."

Growing agitated at his presumptiveness, Sansa snapped her stare to the Hound and met his eyes. Without breaking her stare, Sansa growled out her own response through clenched teeth.

"I'll have water with lemon. Thank you."

Hurriedly, the bartender retreated from the room, leaving them once more in an uncomfortable, tension-filled silence. Stubbornly, Sansa refused to look at the Hound and instead kept her stare to her hands folded lightly in her lap. She knew not how long they remained this way, the Hound boring through her with his icy stare and she defying him obstinately. With the passing of each silent minute, she could feel his anger slowly rising, the room gradually filling with the fury that was so easily stirred within him. After what felt like an eternity, the bartender entered the room, setting steaming bowls of soup in front of them. Unmoving and silent, Sansa remained with her hands folded in her lap until she heard the Hound's grumbling rasp.

"Eat, girl."

"I'm not hungry."

It was a lie. She was starving, absolutely famished, but stubbornly unwilling to share a meal with him. Remembering that Mirabelle had brought her something to eat and had left it in the bedroom upstairs, Sansa pushed the plate of food away from her and turned a defiant stare at the Hound.

In an instant, the Hound pushed himself from the table so abruptly that his bowl of soup went tumbling across the table. Bounding over to her with half a stride, the Hound pulled her chair out with her in it from the table and swung it around so that she was facing him. Petrified and suddenly regretting her defiance, Sansa clutched the arms of the chair, her fingers wrapping so tightly around the wood that her knuckles were turning white. The Hound crouched down to his knees, effortlessly wrapping his hands over the tops of her hands. As he leaned in close to her, she could feel his body pressing against her, his face hovering inches away from hers. Once more, his massive size was overpowering her and she felt helpless beneath him.

"You think you're brave, but I saw you before and I see you now. You crumble and all I need to do is look at you. Or touch you."

His voice was a low, lusty rasp as he spoke and she could smell the thick scent of whiskey and cigar smoke on him. Unwrapping his right hand from hers, the Hound rested four fingers around her neck underneath her ear and slowly traced her jaw line with his thumb. Reaching her chin, he lifted his thumb and ran it across her trembling lips.

"Feel that? Because I do. You're trembling, shaking like a leaf."

Through the dim light of the room, Sansa could see his eyes burning, but not with the fury she normally saw there. Rather, they were ablaze with a lascivious fervor. The Hound pushed lightly on her lips, parting them slightly as he continued to stroke them with his thumb.

"What do you want with me?"

As she spoke, her lips brushed against his thumb as it lightly hovered over her mouth. Pulling away from her, the Hound settled back on his legs, but remained silent, the desire slowly retreating from his eyes. Desperately trying to understand, Sansa's voice came tremulous from her lips.

"If you're wanting to ransom me, you'll be disappointed. My Dad isn't like Nestor Royce. He won't have the kind of money you're looking for."

The Hound smiled darkly, a knowing smile that intimated he knew what lay ahead for her and had orchestrated it himself. Sansa's stomached churned with disgust. She hated that smile.

"You think I'm planning to ransom you? You think I want money? You watch too many fucking movies. No, you're not going back to your family, you're not going home. You're staying here. Whether you like or not, I could give a fuck either way."

She felt as his massive hands slowly began moving up the outer part of her thighs, pulling her dress up with them. Sansa gasped at his touch and squirmed in her seat, remembering that her panties were crumpled beneath Myranda's dress all the way upstairs in Mirabelle's bathroom. And beneath Mirabelle's dress, she wore nothing, not that it made much of a difference. If he meant to force himself on her, there would be hardly anything she could do to stop it. Balling her hands into fists, she resolved herself to fight anyway if he tried.

But his hands stopped as soon as the dress had risen enough to reveal the dark purple bruises on her legs, which were beginning to turn yellow around the edges. The dim light of the dining room amplified the darkened colors, making them appear much worse than they actually were. Delicately, the Hound ran his fingers over the bruises, scrutinizing them with a furrowed brow.

"This is from me?"

With ragged breaths and wincing slightly at the pressure of his fingers on her bruises, Sansa nodded her head, watching as she saw the Hound's eyes flicker once more with guilt. Removing one hand, he swiveled slightly in his crouched position and slid his cocktail glass across the table and into his hand.

Lowering the glass to the tops of her thighs, the Hound ran it over her bruises, leaving a trail of moisture where the glass was sweating in condensation. Sansa sucked in her breath, grimacing slightly at the cold sensation across her skin. Exhaling slowly, she lifted her eyes to the Hound who was contemplating her with a mischievous smile pulling at his lips. She had expected to let her eyes fall away, either embarrassed or scandalized. Instead she kept his gaze, watching him as he studied her. Suddenly and without warning, the Hound lifted himself to his feet and pushed Sansa's chair back to the table before lowering himself into his seat.

Once more they sat in silence, but Sansa found it was no longer uncomfortable. With curiosity tugging at the back of her mind, she shifted in her seat towards him, tilting her head softly to the side as her eyes searched him.

"You have a brother."

As his eyes flew up to meet hers, Sansa wasn't sure if she had crossed a line. Mirabelle had seemed hesitant to discuss her other brother and shied away from the topic of conversation. With his eyes unreadable and his face stoic as stone, the Hound's voice was monotone and matter of fact.

"Mirabelle told you."

Suddenly sure this was a sore topic of conversation, Sansa silently nodded her head and bit her lip.

"Well, isn't Mirabelle just an oracle of information."

Much to her relief, the Hound chuckled as he brought his cocktail glass to his lips. Slowly he pulled on his drink before setting the glass on the table.

"Yes, Mirabelle and I have a brother."

"Is he here?"

With his jaw clenched, the Hound's mouth began to twitch as his eyes darkened at her question.

"If he were here, you'd know."

Sansa didn't know what to say, how she could possibly respond as his body became rigid and his face glazed with a brooding stillness. Instead, she sat quietly, keeping her mouth shut lest she ask the wrong question again or say something that triggered the fury she saw stirring in him. Sighing deeply, the Hound began to speak, his voice like gravel, a low rasp as he stared off into his whiskey glass.

"If you ask my men how I got my scars, you'll get about a dozen or so different answers depending on who you ask. Some will tell you it was an initiation ritual gone awry. Others will tell you I did it to myself to prove my dedication to the organization. I've even heard some say that it was an acid attack.

When I was eight, Gregor was thirteen and by then nearly six feet tall. Mirabelle is the youngest, she was six. Even then, she was a feisty little thing; curious too and always getting into stuff. But she was afraid of Gregor, we all were. One night, she got into Gregor's room. She wanted something he had, a toy I think. I forget exactly what it was, but by then, he wasn't interested in toys. He was already getting into alcohol, fighting, and girls. She thought Gregor was gone for the evening, but sure enough, he came home and found Mirabelle going through his room. It didn't matter that she was six, half his height and a quarter his weight. He went after her anyway. I heard her screaming and crying and ran up the stairs right as Gregor threw her into the wall. I shouted at him to stop, but he just kept going after her. He had a baseball bat next to his bed so I grabbed it. I knew that after one swing, he'd be coming after me instead of her so I had to make that one swing count. With as much power as an eight year old could manage, I swung at Gregor. I hit him behind the knees. I had seen that in a movie once and it seemed like as good a place as any to hit him. It got Gregor off of Mirabelle, but sure enough he came after me.

I ran down the stairs and outside. I don't know where I was running to. We lived near some woods so maybe that's where I was heading. Either way I ran, but Gregor caught up to me. He snatched the bat from my hands and swung with everything he had. He hit me in the stomach, knocked the wind out of me and broke some ribs. It was fall and our father was burning leaves. Once I was on the ground, Gregor dragged me to a leaf pile that was still burning hot, and shoved my face into the flames. It took two full grown men, my Dad and one of our neighbors, to pull Gregor off of me. He had burned half of my face and broke Mirabelle's arm. It didn't matter though. They were all scared of him. There was nothing anyone could do."

Sansa sat dumbfounded as the Hound, such a fearsome man, seemingly opened himself up to her, revealing a piece of his past, a painful one at that. She hadn't expected him to, but he did. And as the hatred gleamed in his eyes, she finally understood something of him. Her fear had melted away and in its void she found that she pitied him and Mirabelle. Slowly and hesitantly, Sansa extended her arm and laid her hand delicately on his forearm, a reassuring gesture meant to calm the rage she felt was rising in him.

"He's a monster."

To her bewilderment, the Hound chuckled lightly, his eyes settling on her gently.

"That he is, Little Bird. That he is."

With that the Hound pushed himself from the table, pulling his arm away from her and swaying slightly with a flush of intoxication as he downed the rest of his drink. As he circled the table, he came to stand next to Sansa, placing his hand under her chin and lifting her stare up to his.

"We're leaving tomorrow. I have some business to take care of in Vegas and you need to learn a thing or two about how things work around here. Be ready by noon, dress nice, and don't make me fucking wait."

Without another word, the Hound sulked from the room, his form disappearing in the darkness beyond the dining room. For many silent moments Sansa remained where she was, letting her eyes roam the room around her as the house became quiet as a crypt.

_'Oh my dear Alice. You've fallen down the rabbit hole.'_ Sansa could almost hear Myranda's voice in her ears, the playful chiding masking dark words. Looking around the room once more and contemplating the soup spilled across the table, Sansa pushed herself to her feet.

_Down the rabbit hole indeed._


	4. Chapter 4

  **Gods and Monsters**

Chapter Four

* * *

**_2:17 am_ **

A beacon of restlessness. The numbers were glowing red embers through the darkness of the room. The little colon separating 2 from 1 flashing annoyingly as Sansa tossed to her right side and pulled the covers over her head.

The sheets were itchy and stiff, as if they had been cleaned, starched, and tightly tucked around the lumpy mattress on which she was sleeping.  _Who the hell starches their sheets?_

The thought elicited a tiny exhaled giggle. For much of the evening, she hadn't known whether to laugh or to cry. Or perhaps laugh until she cried or maybe cry until she laughed. She had oscillated between the two; her frustrated and fearful tears subsiding to an eerie calm until the pendulum swung wildly to the other side and she could do nothing more than bitterly laugh away her uncertain thoughts and the fretful rummaging through the mental Rolodex of  _'What ifs_.'

What if Podrick's family never found out what happened to him? What if her mother was still alive, laid up in a hospital somewhere? What if her father was still looking for her? What if he was hurt? And what if the Hound meant what he said, that she wasn't going home?

After her dinner, or rather non-dinner, with the Hound, Mirabelle had retrieved Sansa from the dining room. The woman had garbed herself in yoga pants and a T-shirt for bed. Having removed all of her make-up and having pulled her long hair up into a messy pony tail, she looked different to Sansa. Still beautiful, but different; like a little girl and all that comes with being young- uncertainty, insecurity, simplicity. Her stormy grey eyes had widened to the size of saucers when she spotted the smearing of ham and pea soup across the elaborate cherry inlay of the mahogany dining room table. Sansa had mused over how it must have looked; a bowl still balanced on its side, soup adhering to the wood as it slowly dried, and next to it all an empty cocktail glass with condensing water bleeding out onto the table.  _Like a child throwing a drunken, whiskey-induced tantrum_   _then sulking off to pout or drink or do God knows what._

Mirabelle had not inquired about the spilled soup nor did she press for details of Sansa's dinner with the Hound. Instead, she quietly floated into the room with a half smile creased about tightly pursed lips and motioned Sansa from her seat before leading her back up the stairs in a reserved silence. The woman understood what had transpired, Sansa sensed, which rendered questions useless. Mirabelle seemed to have a grasp on her brother's demeanor. After all, she herself shared some of the Hound's ferocity. But while her fury manifested in bursts of agitated anger when provoked, the Hound's was a seething kind of anger, slow burning and smoldering and above all else dangerous.

Walking down the upstairs hall, Sansa had reached out to touch the wall and guided herself along as she followed Mirabelle who effortlessly meandered through the darkness, shifting every now and then to avoid a decorative chair or small hall table. Having walked right into one of those small tables, Sansa began mimicking Mirabelle's movements, side stepping to the left or right as required. For having told Sansa this was a temporary home, the woman seemed to know her way around well enough. Hell, even Sansa knew which door led to Mirabelle's room, but as they eased past it, she had nervously sucked in her breath.

She had assumed she would sleep in Mirabelle's room, the only room of the house she felt  _somewhat_ comfortable in. Not that she was about to kick off her shoes and make herself at home, but Mirabelle's room had provided a temporary retreat from all the horrors Sansa had endured. The comfort was meager, but it was  _something_ at least. As they headed towards the end of the hall and away from what little light had spilled from the foyer to the hallway above, Sansa froze in her tracks, suddenly terrified at what was housed in the darkness.

The Hound had told her next to nothing about why he refused to let her go home and why she was even here in the first place. He had told her that he wasn't going to ransom her. With that knowledge, Sansa had released some of the tension in her body until it dawned on her.  _If he's not ransoming me, then what does he want?_ He wasn't looking for money, which meant there were less than a handful of things he could want from her and each of them were more petrifying than the last.

Standing at the end of the hallway in a strange house with a woman she barely knew, Sansa had succumb to her fear, feeling it's icy grip squeeze about her throat and churn violently in her stomach. Yet again she was being led to a room which held some mysterious fate on the other side of a closed door. Perhaps it was the Hound's room and perhaps he meant to rape her. She hadn't let her mind perseverate on that conclusion, but it had lingered in the back of her head the entire night. She didn't want to acknowledge that possibility, to manifest it by just thinking about it. So instead, she had buried it away and pretended it wasn't there, but she wasn't stupid, no more than she was blind. She had seen the way he contemplated her, the way his eyes gleamed with a sort of desire when he looked at her. No,  _watched_ her.

Sansa had kissed a boy once or maybe twice, but definitely no more than that. Myranda had laughed at her and joked that all the boys knew Sansa Stark would  _never_ put out, not until a ring was put on her finger and a  _Mrs._  was put in front of her name. At the time it had hurt Sansa's feelings. She couldn't understand why on earth she'd be ostracized for  _not_ being a slut. Besides, she had resigned herself to be in love before she lost her virginity and she certainly couldn't imagine ever being in love with the dipshit boys she went to school with. College would be better, she had told herself. She'd find a guy that was intelligent, kind, funny, and handsome and she'd fall in love with him. And then she would let him be the one to take her virginity. But the Hound forcing himself on her and taking her every which way he pleased terrified her more than she could have ever imagined.

When Mirabelle had reached the end of the hallway and turned back, Sansa could see the look of agitation and exasperation on the woman's face as she made her way back towards Sansa. She looked tired and beyond that she looked as though something was eating away at her, nagging at her conscious and gnawing on her intuition. With a terse slew of half-assed reassurances, Mirabelle had shuffled Sansa into a room at the end of the hall, flicking on the lights and jokingly asking Sansa if she wanted her to look for monsters under the bed. At that Sansa had laughed a little before wishing Mirabelle goodnight.

Laughing felt strange, she had decided. As though she was indulging in something she shouldn't, something entirely forbidden. Yet she reminded herself she didn't laugh because she was happy. No, she laughed because if she didn't, she might lose herself to sadness and fear. And that was  _not_ a rabbit hole she wanted to fall down.

Peeling off the sheets from over her head, she imagined some poor soul dousing them in half a can of spray starch and ironing them to immaculate perfection. Sansa smiled and once more offered up an exhaled breath of laughter to the darkness that crept through the room.

**_2:29 am_ **

Turning over her left shoulder, Sansa sought out those three little numbers as she wished away the time and pondered on its fickleness.  _'How is it,'_ she thought curiously to herself,  _'that time zooms by when you want it to the least, but crawls to a halt when you're dreading something?'_

She had dreaded the evening, but found she dreaded the morning much more. The Hound had told her to be ready by noon, to dress nice, and to not make him wait. If there was one thing she knew about him, it was that he did not appreciate waiting on people. Sansa had no idea, absolutely none, why the Hound needed to take her with him on his little business adventure to Las Vegas. Beyond being a mob boss, she didn't know what kind of business he might be in, but with Las Vegas being the City of Sin she imagined he must have no problem finding business there.

After Mirabelle had left her, Sansa flipped the lock on the door handle, ensuring that if anyone wanted to enter the room she would at least hear them first. Frantically, she had paced about, chewing on her fingernail and nervously biting her lip. She felt like a bird in a cage; a canary perhaps, waiting to be dropped down a mine shaft to an asphyxiating doom.

Her body was sore, as much from running and being thrown around as it was from the tension she had held in her muscles. She had hardly slept in the past 24 hours and knew that she needed sleep badly. However, sleep had not come even after she threw herself to the bed and sobbed into the pillow. If she couldn't even cry herself into sleep, she doubted she would get much rest for the night. But she didn't want to be awake because that meant reliving the nightmare over and over and  _over_ in her head.

The digital clock radio at the side of the bed had taunted her all night; glaring out at her with screaming red numbers reminding her that time was indeed still easing on by and with each second she was ushered closer to yet another unknown destiny awaiting her at noon.

**_2:32 am_ **

Sansa shot up from the bed and pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers, desperately driving out the irritation and worry from her mind. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed and rubbing the blurriness from her eyes, Sansa flashed an agitated glance at the clock radio as its colon-for-eyes blinked flatly at her.

With a huff she slid from the bed and crouched to the floor, seeking out the cord to the radio as she pushed her hands underneath the night stand. When her fingers grazed the plastic of the cord, Sansa gave a hard yank and felt a gratified smile cross her lips as the red glow was extinguished and the room darkened ever so slightly.

Before she could push herself up from the floor, the sound of muffled voices swept into the room from somewhere downstairs. Slowly, Sansa let her body lower to the floor as she pressed her ear against the carpet and steadied her breaths.

The low grumbling timbre of a man's voice permeated through floor boards and carpet to meet Sansa's ear. By now, his deep and commanding voice was unmistakable to her. She strained to hear the other voice and although she couldn't make out any words, the low tones implied it was another man's voice. With a sudden flush of curiosity, Sansa pulled her head from the floor and pressed her hands against the carpet as she pushed herself up on all fours.

The voices had melted back into the darkness as Sansa took slow steps towards the bedroom door. As she pressed her ear against the door, the sounds reemerged and the Hound's voice was now laced with a vehement fierceness. However, the words were still incoherent mumbles. A nagging from within chided Sansa and urged her to crawl back into the bed and forget that the Hound was somewhere downstairs raging passionately about something.

But Sansa knew herself well enough to know that the curiosity would gnaw at her until she couldn't take it anymore and she'd end up right back where she was, pressing her ear against the bedroom door to listen.

Pulling in a deep breath, Sansa steadied her hand and wrapped her fingers around the door handle, turning it slowly until she heard the locking mechanism click and felt the door creep open. The crispness of the voices rushed to her ears as she pulled the door open a few inches and allowed her head to hover in the open space.

Angry footsteps pounded against the hardwood floor below, the walls shaking slightly with each heavy footfall. Sansa pieced together an image in her head from the sounds; the Hound pacing furiously about, hands clenched tightly by his side and his mouth set in a scowl as he seethed his rage. Sansa felt for whoever was on the receiving end of his tirade, the poor soul who had to endure his anger. She certainly did not envy them. With anticipation fueling her quickened breaths, Sansa waited and listened, but heard nothing more as the Hound's footfalls receded to silence. As she pulled her head from the crevice of space made by the open door and prepared herself to tiptoe back to bed, Sansa heard the Hound's voice once more, his tone had calmed to a low rasp tinged with something akin to guilt.

"Leon was a mistake, a misstep on my part. I already fucking know that. He wasn't supposed to hurt the Payne boy or Sansa for that matter. If I had known, do you honestly think I would have sent him after her? What was I supposed to do? Leon's a tracker, it's what he was good at. And I needed to get her  _here_  and fast. Tell me old man, how was I supposed to do that?"

Bringing a trembling hand up her mouth, Sansa stifled an audible gasp. Her name on his lips felt like an electric shock jolting through her body. Beyond that, his words were inconceivable to her.  _Podrick was never supposed to die. It wasn't supposed to happen that way._ Doubling over, she felt like she might puke as the acidity hit the back of her throat and the Hound's words hit her like a ton of bricks straight to the stomach. Her mind flashed with the images of Pod sprawled across the motel parking lot, choking on his own blood and the light slowly leaving his eyes. Sansa did her best to quell her winded sobs. Over her inhaled breaths, she heard the Hound's voice once more, growing louder as he moved towards the staircase in the foyer.

"You have no answers I see. Well then, I'm going to bed."

With panic startling her from her sorrow, Sansa quietly shut the door and retreated back to the bed, pulling the covers tight over her head.  _I hate him. I hate him for what he did to Pod, even if it was a mistake._

A steady stream of silent tears spilled over Sansa's cheeks as she recanted in her mind all the reasons she hated the Hound. He had brought her here deliberately and with a purpose, sending Leon after her which ultimately resulted in Pod's death. With each of his footsteps coming down the hall, Sansa remembered one more reason why she hated him and blinked away the tears that wouldn't stop coming. From outside her door, she heard him fumble with a doorknob across the hall and after a few moments heard the door slam shut.

Suddenly remembering that she had foolishly forgotten to lock the door, Sansa half expected him to come into her room and was fully expecting to hate him for that reason along with the many others she had enumerated in her brain.

But he hadn't tried to come in. He hadn't even stopped at her door. Instead, he went into his own room to probably toss and turn the night away as she had. Although she had one less reason to hate him, it made no matter to her as the tears continued to fall from her eyes until they eventually lulled her into a sound sleep.

When the light of the morning sun warmed the back of her eyelids, illuminating the darkness behind her eyes with orange and red hues, Sansa felt as though she was being roused from an eternal rest, like Snow White waking up in a fucked up version of Wonderland, as if Wonderland wasn't fucked up enough as it was. Pivoting on the precipice of being awake and asleep, she had for a fleeting moment thought she was back home, tucked warmly in her own bed. As her eyes squinted against the glaring light filtering through linen drapes, Sansa remembered with a start that she was indeed still down the rabbit hole.

Rolling over to her left, a soft smile crept across her lips as she remembered her conquest of the digital clock radio and how she had vanquished the glowing red numbers with a tug on the cord. If only it had been that easy to stop the ticking of time.  _Just give a little tug and the world stops spinning, time stands still._

The clock had gone dark, but the sun had come up anyway and blinking away the remnants of her rest, she had no idea how long she had slept nor did she know what time it was. It didn't matter what time it was anyway. It's not like she had anywhere to be. It's not like she had to show up for work, or get to class, or help her mom with the Sunday morning grocery shopping.

_'Be ready by noon, dress nice, and don't make me fucking wait.'_

But then there was  _that_. His words still pulsed through her head, audibly neon and everything, from tone to timbre, thick in her ears as if he were speaking them aloud next to her. He had said that she needed to learn how things worked around "here." Whatever the hell that meant. She didn't care how things worked in his world. She wanted to be back home in her own bed, in her own clothes, with her own family.

With a groan, Sansa pulled the covers over her head and willingly allowed the wistful thoughts to meander into her head.  _Maybe I slept past noon. Maybe it's well into the afternoon. Maybe he left without me._

Her musings were abruptly interrupted as the bedroom door softly squeaked on its hinges. From beneath the covers, Sansa's could hear her own heartbeat loud in her ears and felt like a child, desperately hoping a mere blanket might armor her against whatever monster was working its way towards her.

As they approached the bed, she could feel whoever it was standing over her and hear as they exhaled a hesitant breath.

"Sansa?"

The voice that met her ears was blessedly soft, feminine, and familiar to her. Tossing the covers off of her, Sansa glimpsed Mirabelle standing over her with her hands folded in front of her. The woman eased herself to the edge of the bed and sat down, leaning her weight on one elbow, her shined and straightened hair cascading over her arm as she considered Sansa with amusement in her eyes.

"So you  _are_  awake. Were you hiding or something?" A soft smile tugged at the corner's of Mirabelle's glossed lips. Sansa could smell the sweetness of her perfume mingling with the faint scent of shampoo in her hair. It appeared as though Mirabelle had been up for awhile, at least long enough to ready herself for the day.

As a look of concern flashed through Mirabelle's eyes, Sansa suddenly felt a tug of guilt at her center, clearly discerning the worry that had settled heavily on the woman's face and perhaps a trace of hurt; hurt that Sansa might have been hiding from her.

"No. I just…it's bright in here," she lied, sweeping her eyes towards the sunlight streaming in through the windows and pushing herself up to a seated position. Not that it mattered, but Sansa didn't want Mirabelle to know that for a split second she had been petrified that the Hound was coming to rouse her, that underneath the blanket her heart pounded and the hair on her arms stood on end.  _'To fear something is to give it power.'_ Her father had once told her that when she was a little girl, sitting on the side of a pool at the YMCA and crying her eyes out because she didn't want to learn how to swim. She didn't need to, she had told him in desperate pleas. He had begged to differ. All the other children took to the water like they were born with fins. It had been just her and another little boy who would cry like the world was coming to an end every time they had to go into the water. Eventually, her father relented and pulled her out of swim lessons, deciding to teach her on his own. Her first lesson was how to conquer fear.  _'Fear can swallow us whole, but only if we let it. Keep a level head when you are afraid and don't give in to the fear.'_

In all her years, Sansa never imagined that the advice she had been given when she was six, advice on how to conquer the fear of swimming without floaties, would be needed in a situation like this. Resolved to at least feign fearlessness, Sansa threw the covers off of her legs and scooted to the edge of the bed and next to Mirabelle.

"What time is it?," she softly inquired as she mentally willed the time to be well past noon and for Mirabelle to tell her that she had overslept and that the Hound had had a sudden epiphany that he could go about his business without Sansa. It was a pipedream, but she held onto it nonetheless, riding it out as long as she could before it was ripped away from her.

"About 10, a little after maybe. I wanted to let you sleep, but we should probably get you up and ready. My brother wants to leave at noon."

And just like that, Mirabelle had unwittingly flushed Sansa from her pipedream to be dumped on her ass in reality. There was no getting it out of it; she was going to Las Vegas with the Hound to do whatever it was he needed to do. Swallowing hard and exhaling a defeated breath, Sansa reluctantly slid from the bed and followed Mirabelle out of the room.

As they stepped into the hall, Mirabelle pointed to the door across from them and silently mouthed her words, animatedly contorting her lips to exaggerate each syllable.  _"He's still sleeping."_ Sansa heard her loud and clear despite the lack of audible words. As Mirabelle took her by the hand and they tiptoed down the hallway, Sansa felt like she was playing "Don't Wake Daddy," a ridiculous board game from her childhood that she had been terrible at. Somehow she always woke Daddy and lost. Only now, it was "Don't Wake the Hound" and she didn't want to know what the consequences were for losing.

Once they reached Mirabelle's room and were safely sheltered behind the door, the Hound's sister erupted into laughter, gasping for breaths between giggles and breathlessly working to get her words out.

"I'm sorry. God! I don't know why that was  _so_ funny!"

Sansa couldn't help, but laugh along with Mirabelle or rather laugh at the sight of Mirabelle clutching her side with tears rolling down her cheeks as she erupted in another wave of giggles. Sansa was surprised to find that beneath Mirabelle's hardened exterior and my-way-or-the-highway attitude there was a girl not unlike herself; warm and giddy and gleefully giggling along with Sansa as if they were close girlfriends sharing a hilarious secret.

"Does he get mad when he's woken up?," Sansa interjected as she followed Mirabelle to the bathroom, letting her laughter recede to a nervous chuckle as if she had missed some sort of inside joke.

Dabbing at the tears forming on the corners of her eyes, Mirabelle inhaled a deep breath to steady her voice as she pulled out towels from a small linen closet tucked in the corner of the bathroom.

"He's usually up before everyone else," she offered, shrugging her shoulders as she handed Sansa a wash cloth and bath towel. For a moment, Mirabelle said no more, but Sansa saw as her face turned to a mask of solemnity. Suddenly, the woman who was only moments earlier overcome with fits of girlish laughter had now let her eyes fall to the floor as her brow knitted in worry. Once again her exterior hardened to an impenetrable facade.

"Last night was really rough for him," Mirabelle whispered, her voice strained as she folded her arms tightly across her chest and her eyes still steady at some invisible point on the floor.

Sansa worked to contain her own laughter, but hers, unlike Mirabelle's, was not merry laughter. Rather she snorted an exhaled breath of derisive bitterness as she silently shook her head.  _Rough for him? He's not the one who's been kidnapped._

Careening from the shadows of her memory, Sansa abruptly remembered the conversation she had overheard in the dead of the night. While the rest of the world was adrift in slumber, the Hound had been pacing furiously about as he offered an angry and remorseful confession to the darkness, to Sansa. He had not meant to have Podrick harmed, no more than he meant to harm Sansa. None of it made sense to her. If the Hound didn't want to hurt her and if he didn't want to ransom her, then what the hell  _did_  he want and why was she here?

Before Sansa could gently confess and inquire about what she had overheard, Mirabelle quickly changed the subject and feigned a bright smile with disquiet still clouding her eyes.

"When you're finished showering, find whatever you want to wear from my closet. I had your clothes washed last night and they're on my bed if you want to wear those. I'll come up when you're finished dressing."

Sansa gave a soft nod of the head and watched as Mirabelle retreated from the bathroom, shutting the door behind her without so much as a backwards glance at Sansa.

She had taken a shower the previous evening, a painful experience as the water lashed about her skin and as the memories of home caravanned through her unsettled mind. Stepping into the shower, the water still stung against the healing scrapes and scratches strewn about her legs and arms, but Sansa welcomed the warmth against her body, as if she was in an oddly comforting embrace. Normally, the shower was where Sansa did her best thinking. Standing beneath the shower head, Sansa Stark could solve the world's problems as the water rushed over her skin and soap suds enrobed her body. In the shower, Sansa was a problem-solver, a free thinker, a savvy, cosmopolitan mind that pondered thoughtfully on everything from fashion to politics; that is until she stepped from the tub. All the brilliant solutions and clever thoughts would suddenly flee from her as she wrapped herself in a towel and began going about her day.

Standing beneath Mirabelle's showerhead, Sansa suddenly felt as if she was damming her thoughts, barricading them from her mind lest they all rush to the forefront faster than she could handle them. There was too much to think about, too much to ponder, too much to perseverate on. She didn't want to face them, not now at least. So instead, she let herself become lulled to a dreamy daze as she relished the warm water against her skin and lingeringly let the soap bubbles encase her body.

When she was finished, Sansa toweled off the droplets dotting her skin and stepped from the claw-foot tub. As with the previous night's bathing, the mirror had fogged over, leaving her appearance a mystery, for better or for worse. She had looked like hell last night. She hadn't even needed to really look in a mirror to know that. Swiping her hand over the mirror in a circular motion, Sansa cleared away the fog and lifted her eyes to the reflection. The face looking back at her looked much more like her own. The gash about her cheek was beginning to scab over, the skin around the scab a pinkish-red as the wound was healing. Her eyes shone radiantly, the dullness from crying seemingly lifted as the color glimmered a bright blue. However, she somehow looked older; as if some of her innocence had been extracted, leaving her less naïve and more world-wary. Pondering her own reflection, Sansa realized she looked less of a girl and more of a woman.

Pulling herself away from the mirror, Sansa made her way into Mirabelle's bed room and towards the clothes that had been laid out on the bed for her. True to her word, Mirabelle had indeed had Sansa's clothes laundered. Picking up the white dress Myranda had let her borrow, Sansa let the fabric unfold as her eyes settled on the blood stains still smattered about the dress. She doubted those would ever come out, but she also doubted she would ever want to wear this dress again. Why would she? She had worn it through unspeakable tragedy, the night her life changed forever. No, she would rather see it burned to ashes than ever wear it again. Tossing the accursed dress aside, Sansa found her bra and underwear had been tucked underneath.

Funny how she had come to take something like underwear for granted. Sansa's mind wandered to the previous night when the Hound had slowly raked up her skirt and how she had wholly thought he wouldn't stop. But he had stopped and beyond that, he had seemed genuinely concerned about the bruises he left on the tops of her thighs. Still, she didn't wish to go commando any longer and gratefully pulled on her undergarments before pacing tentatively towards Mirabelle's closet. Truly, the woman had more clothes than anyone she had ever known, including Myranda. And they were nice clothes too; cotton, satin, silk. Not the cheap, synthetic blend fabrics that wore like a second skin.

Thumbing through the neatly hung clothes, Sansa spotted a tuft of blue fabric tucked between two sequence-embellished cocktail dresses. Carefully, she pushed aside the other dresses and found the hanger belonging to the blue dress. The color was gorgeous; a deep periwinkle that she imagined would compliment her auburn hair and porcelain skin quite well. Sansa stepped into the dress and pulled it onto her body. The skirt of the dress was softly pleated and fell right above the knees. Starting at the waist, thick bands of fabric made up the sleeveless, strapped top. Stepping in front of a mirror, Sansa fell in love with the color and the fit of the dress; it beautifully and tastefully elongated her legs and accentuated her slim waist. Unlike Myranda's dress, Sansa found she actually felt comfortable wearing this dress. She felt…well…pretty.

Apparently, Mirabelle agreed too. The Hound's sister floated into the room, cooing over Sansa's choice of dress with a million-watt grin sweeping over her face.

"I love this on you. You look gorgeous," Mirabelle gushed as she ran her fingers over Sansa's damp hair. "Let me do your hair and make-up. Please! I have been dying to!"

Sansa couldn't help but smile as Mirabelle's face seemed to light up, gleefully urging Sansa to accept her offer.

 _Technically, he only said to dress nice. He never said anything about having my hair and make-up done._ Although she imagined a man like the Hound probably didn't know to specify that. To him, dress nice probably meant to look nice all around. Regardless, she wasn't used to wearing much make-up; her father flipped anytime Myranda would do her make-up. She couldn't really blame him though. From head to toe, Myranda's sense of style was something akin to that of a high-class escort.

Relenting, Sansa coyly nodded her head and let out a breathy giggle as Mirabelle bounced on her feet and led Sansa into the bathroom. Seating her at the vanity and in front of the mirror, Mirabelle set in immediately, pulling a paddled brush through Sansa's long auburn tresses as she ran a blow-dryer over her hair. Sansa let her eyes flutter softly as the Hound's sister worked gently and deftly, alternating between brush and blow-dryer until Sansa's hair was dry. Waiting as a straightener warmed up to temperature, Mirabelle sprayed product into Sansa's hair, lifting sections to maintain even application. Biting her lip, Sansa desperately wanted to tell Mirabelle about what she had overheard the night before and to file through, one by one, all the questions that were piling up in her mind.

"He told me about his scars, about what your brother did to him." Sansa hesitantly lifted her eyes to the mirror, searching out Mirabelle's reaction. Although it wasn't the confession she had in mind, it was a reasonable starting place.

Lifting the straightener from Sansa's head, Mirabelle let a section of Sansa's hair fall back into place as she stared into the mirror, her mouth slightly parted in a gape of bewilderment.

"He told you about that?" The woman's voice quivered slightly, something between shock and amazement.

Sansa silently nodded her head. She hadn't expected that. From what the Hound had told her, Sansa gathered that his men speculated about the origin of his scars. She hadn't known that he had kept it a secret from almost everyone surrounding him. With this knowledge in mind, Sansa found herself just as bewildered as Mirabelle. Of all the people to open up to, he had opened up to her, revealing a well-guarded secret of his past. Sansa didn't know whether to feel flattered or confused. She settled for confused and apparently Mirabelle mimicked that sentiment.

"Hmm. He rarely tells anyone. I think I'm one of two people that know. Well, three now, including you."

Mirabelle shook her head and sighed, retrieving a lock of Sansa's hair as she set back into her task. For long moments, Mirabelle remained quiet as she worked the straightener through Sansa's hair. While no words were spoken, Sansa knew that Mirabelle was lost somewhere in her own thoughts; the turmoil and restlessness were written all over the woman's face. When finished with Sansa's hair, Mirabelle pulled open a make-up drawer and began applying a series of creams to Sansa's face; first a moisturizer, then a primer, and finally ivory colored foundation.

Sansa closed her eyes as Mirabelle worked, feeling the slight pressure of the woman's fingertips against her face as Mirabelle smoothed the products over her skin in methodical circular motions. Even with her eyes squeezed shut, Sansa could sense Mirabelle was holding onto something as the tension began filling the room.

"Gregor is five years older than Sandor," Mirabelle began as she shuffled through her make-up drawer for concealer, powder, and a brush.

Sansa's eyes snapped open and caught Mirabelle's reflection in the mirror.

"Sandor?," she inquired with quiet pensiveness. His name exited her lips questioningly even though she surmised that that was the Hound's name.

"The Hound, my brother. His name is Sandor." Mirabelle's lips crept into a smile as she dabbed concealer underneath Sansa's eyes and over the edges of the healing gash about her cheek.

"I called him Sandy growing up. Sometimes I still do, just to see him get pissed. Now  _that_ never leaves this room. He would kill me if he knew I told you that," Mirabelle urged playfully as she caught Sansa's eyes with her own and chuckled softly.

"Your secret is safe with me." Sansa smiled up at Mirabelle, crossing her heart with her index finger in a girlish gesture to emphasize her sincerity.

Dusting powder over Sansa's freshly dried foundation and concealer, Mirabelle began again, talking as she worked, here and there rummaging through her make-up drawer and pulling out items as she needed them.

"Gregor is five years older than Sandor who is two years older than me. If you think Sandor is tall, Gregor is even taller, a beast really. By the time he was eight, Gregor was the same size as our mother. You see, we take after our father, he was really tall. My mom was a petite woman. Well, if Gregor didn't get his way, he figured out real quick that all he had to do was beat the shit out of our mom. There was nothing she could do about it. Even my father couldn't discipline Gregor no matter how hard he tried.

They took Gregor to behavioral therapists, I think they called them. They were some sort of specialized psychiatrist. He was put on meds, evaluated by every goddamn doctor you could think of, put through intensive counseling, the whole nine yards. My parents tried everything and nothing worked. When I was eight, my mother passed away unexpectedly. I always thought, and I still do, that the poor woman died of a broken heart. The whole ordeal with Gregor tore her to pieces. Not being able to protect Sandor and I tore her to pieces even worse. I just think eventually she couldn't take it anymore and gave up the fight.

After she died, my father was never the same. And Gregor just spiraled deeper into whatever it is that afflicts him. Sandor and I clung to each other. He was my protector and still is in a lot of ways. The occasions where I managed to piss Gregor off, it was Sandor who would intervene, take the blows that were meant for me. And that's what happened the night Sandor got his scars."

Sansa nodded her head, remembering the story Sandor had told her the night before and noticing that the pained expression on Mirabelle's face matched the pain she had seen gleaming behind the Hound's eyes. Sweeping a mascara wand through Sansa's curled lashes, Mirabelle continued working, but Sansa had noticed her fingers were now trembling ever so slightly.

"We grew up on the western edge of the Sacramento valley in an itty bitty town. Our house backed up to some woods so whenever things got bad with Gregor, which was almost always, Sandor and I would trek it the woods behind our house. We had found this little area tucked away and knew by heart how to get there. While Gregor would be having one of his fits, Sandor would take me by the hand and we'd slip away, hide out in our little forest retreat.

One night Gregor was having it out with our Dad. I was about eleven, Gregor was eighteen and Sandor was thirteen, almost fourteen. Anyway, my Dad was furious with Gregor. I forget exactly what Gregor did, but it was his typical shit; drugs, alcohol, getting into fights. I remember they were in the living room. Sandor and I were in the kitchen. I kid you not, it sounded like World War III was breaking out in our living room; glass breaking, furniture being knocked over, screaming and yelling. My father was a big man, but by the time he was eighteen, Gregor was even bigger than him and a complete nightmare by then. I ran into the living room and I saw Gregor on top of our father, just wailing on him. I just remember looking at him, you know? It was the look on our father's face. I had never seen him scared before, but with Gregor there on top of him, delivering blow after blow, it was like he knew what was coming. Sandor pulled me away and I remember running towards the woods. 'Run, Mirabelle. Run and don't look back,' he kept saying. And so I ran and ran, not looking back because I was scared Gregor was right behind us.

It was pitch dark out and cold, but we ran like hell. And we made it to our little hide out and huddled together. Sandor held me there while I cried my eyes out. I've never been so terrified in my life. I was almost certain that Gregor was coming for us. I still have nightmares of that night in the woods. God! It gives me chills just talking about it. After what felt like a fucking eternity, the sun finally came up. Sandor and I waited. And we waited. And then waited some more. After being in the woods for an entire night and half of a day, we decided to go back. When we got back home, Gregor was gone. He fled from the house and I haven't seen him since. And my dad."

Sansa opened her eyes as Mirabelle let her hands fall to her sides and her voice trailed off. As tears glistened in the corners of her eyes, Mirabelle let a compact of blush tumble from one hand to the other, avoiding Sansa's astounded stare. Quietly, she began again, her words quivering from her lips.

"My dad was gone too. He was lying on the living room floor, his eyes were open, but he was gone."

Sansa silently let her mouth fall open, but hadn't the words to say. Nothing she could come up with, no words of comfort seemed quite adequate in this moment as Mirabelle sucked in a breath and released it in a sorrowful sigh. Swiveling in her seat, Sansa turned towards Mirabelle, intently searching out Mirabelle's eyes with her voice softly pleading.

"I'm so sorry, Mirabelle. I had no idea. What did you do after? Where did you and Sandor go?"

Giving a soft smile, Mirabelle swiped at the tears that had fallen from her eyes and tilted Sansa's face back towards her before setting resolutely into her work once more. Sweeping blush across Sansa's high cheekbones, Mirabelle cleared her throat and continued, her voice darkening slightly.

"We didn't have any extended family, at least not any that we knew of. We just left. Sandor has always been street smart, you know? He just gets it. He understands how the world works, good and bad. He knew that if we called the police, they would just stick us with some relative we didn't know. Or worse, we'd get put into the system, probably separated and placed in foster homes until we turned eighteen. So we ran, but we didn't get very far. Everyone in our neighborhood had been looking for us after they found out what happened. Eventually one of our neighbors spotted us as we were trying to get a bus out of town. They brought us into the police station and we told them what happened with Gregor and they assured us they would find him, that he'd answer for what he did to our father. Sure as shit, we were put in the system, but to both of our surprise, a family agreed to foster us,  _both_ of us."

"That was good, right? If you had been placed in separate foster homes, that would have been worse," Sansa interjected, but somehow felt there was more to it as Mirabelle seemed to tense and she set in again, her voice laced with angry bitterness.

"We were in the same home. That much I was grateful for, but beyond that, no it wasn't good. It was a rich politician prick and his lush of a wife that fostered us. From the outside, they seemed a perfect family; lived in a big, nice house, drove fancy cars, had two teenage kids of their own. The whole shebang, just living the American dream. Then they decided to foster Sandor and I. It looked good for his campaign, you know? Fostering orphan children.

Yeah, the perfect little family. Behind closed doors, their kids, my foster siblings, fucking hated their parents. The boy snorted cocaine and drank himself into oblivion with his rich little friends and the girl spread her legs for every guy that paid her any attention, including some of Daddy's wealthy cohorts. And the wife was a drunk, downing a bottle and a half of wine every night before passing out cold on the couch.

And then there was him, the wholesome, family man politician who loved his wife and kids, even his foster kids. When I was fifteen, he started coming into my room at night. It started out innocent enough; wanting to talk about school, giving me expensive gifts, confiding in me how much he hated his work life and his wife's drinking problem. That led to kissing, which led to touching and you can imagine where it goes from there.

From the day he set foot in that house, Sandor hated that entire family, every single one of them. He especially hated our foster 'father.' The two butted heads all the time. Sandor wanted us to run away, to leave and set off on our own like we were supposed to in the first place. He knew though that we would eventually be found. There was nothing he could do. The only reason Sandor stayed was because of me. He was constantly getting into trouble at school; that is, when he actually showed up at school. He never cared much for it anyway so I guess it didn't really matter at the end of the day. Eventually, our foster family kicked him out of their house. He was 17 at that time and had dropped out of school anyway. He wanted to take me with him, but I was too afraid so I stayed. He made it a point to keep an eye on me still. He'd see me after school and on the weekends. He never let me out of his sight. At the time, I didn't know where he was staying or what he was doing, but he was here, establishing himself with this organization.

When Sandor found out about what my foster father was doing, he lost it and stole me away, brought me here. And this is where I've been ever since."

With that, Mirabelle turned away from Sansa and began carefully putting her make-up back in the drawer. Once more, Sansa was at a loss for words. She had grown up with loving parents in a safe home. She had lived a comfortable life with people who cared about her. She could scarcely imagine enduring all that Mirabelle and Sandor had endured. And then the realization hit Sansa with as much force as a Mack truck. Sansa was indeed enduring some of what Mirabelle and her brother had had to live through. She too had lost her mother more than likely. And the fate of her father was still a mystery to her. For all she knew, he could be in danger or worse. He could be dead. The Hound had a folder chocked full of information about her family, from birth certificates to admission records to notes on the Moriarti case. For a man who had lost  _both_ of his parents to a monster, why then was the Hound condemning her to the same fate? It seemed unspeakably cruel and heartless to her that he would make her suffer as he suffered. The thought simultaneously infuriated and confused her. The more time she spent in this awful place the less it all made sense to her.

Turning towards Mirabelle, Sansa felt genuine pity for the woman. Regardless of what she thought of Mirabelle's brother, Sansa couldn't help but feel sincerely sorry for the Hound's sister. Softly, Sansa took Mirabelle's hands into her own, squeezing gently to offer what little she could by way of support.

"Mirabelle, I don't even know what to say. Sorry just doesn't seem enough. I can't even imagine how hard it must've been on you."

Settling her stunned gaze on Sansa, Mirabelle gave an appreciative half smile although her eyes seemed to contain all the sadness of the world. The woman exhaled a small laugh as she shook her head and cradled Sansa's cheeks between the palms of her hands.

"You're a sweet girl, you know that? No need for apologies from you. The prick got his in the end."

Sansa couldn't help, but notice that Mirabelle had glazed over a good ten or so years worth of her past, explaining nothing about exactly how she and her brother became involved with the Moriarti mafia. Another question lingered in the air, a question Sansa had wanted to ask Sandor, but sensed was off limits, at least when it came to him. But Mirabelle was different; she was warm and graciously open with Sansa.

"And Gregor?," Sansa asked tentatively, lifting her eyes anxiously to search Mirabelle's face. The woman's brow folded in uneasiness as she contemplated something quietly in her mind, her thoughts sealed off even from Sansa. Crossing her arms about her chest, Mirabelle turned towards Sansa, the sadness in her eyes replaced with a fiery determination.

"Gregor. Well, Gregor will get his in the end too, I hope."

Despite her curiosity, Sansa did not press for details and instead watched as the woman stepped away from her, proudly admiring her work and taking Sansa by the hands to lift her to her feet.

"Are you ready? Let's get you something to eat before you have to leave."

Sansa felt her stomach knot violently as she swallowed hard. She wasn't ready, not in the least, but she gave a nod anyway and followed Mirabelle from the bedroom.

* * *

With the drapes pulled tightly shut, the darkness of the room offered nothing to indicate the time. It might very well still be early morning for all he knew. Or perhaps it was nearing noon. Somehow he doubted that. Bronn would have roused him long ago if that were the case. If the pounding in his head and the heaviness of his eyelids were any indication, he had hardly gotten any rest. Three, possibly four hours of sleep total. Even then, it had been fitful, interrupted at least once an hour when he would awake at the slightest of sounds. He would have been better off just finishing the bottle of Johnny Walker Blue and passing out in a whiskey-drowned stupor.

Sandor could give a shit about expensive cigars and he certainly didn't give a fuck about designer suits, satin ties, or bejeweled cufflinks like some of his men. No. The only thing he was particular about was his whiskey. He refused to drink the watered down piss that others called bourbon and he'd rather slit his own wrists than drink the shit that passed for scotch.

Rubbing his hands over his face to drive out his fatigue, Sandor turned to the night stand and flung his hand to the table, feeling through the darkness for his watch. When his outstretched fingers finally found what they were looking for, Sandor snatched the watch up in his hand and pressed the button on the side, illuminating the digital face with a dull green glow.  _Fucking hell. 10:30 already._

Sandor rasped out annoyed curses under his breath as he tossed the blankets off of his half clothed body and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He had wanted to be up earlier. He had  _needed_ to be up earlier. The men coming with him to Vegas needed to be briefed and given their orders. Each man would have a part to play and Sandor couldn't afford for any of them to fuck up. The men staying behind needed to know what was expected of them as well. While Sandor doubted anything would go down while he was gone, he also wasn't willing to take any chances.  _Not anymore. Not after what happened._

Hopefully Bronn had taken care of some of the details for him. While initially Sandor and Bronn had a strained relationship, Sandor had come to trust the man with his life and considered him a brother, the only brother he recognized. Sandor didn't care that Bronn didn't share blood with him. He had saved his life and was closer to him than Gregor could ever hope to be. For Sandor, that was enough. Blood or not, Bronn was his brother.

Flinging his watch back to the night stand, Sandor slid from his bed and paced to the bathroom door. As he flicked on the lights, he squinted until his eyes adjusted to the garish glow of the vanity lights. He pondered his reflection in the mirror; he looked like hell. Not only did he feel as though he had not gotten any rest, apparently he looked it too. The heaviness in his eyelids was apparent and he looked dazed. Or maybe hung over.

Contemplating his bare chest and abdomen in the mirror, Sandor brought his fingers to the bruise emerging on his muscled stomach, sucking in his breath as he pushed slightly at the tender area. It was where Sansa had elbowed him the night of the Royce's party as she desperately sought to flee from him.  _If only she had understood._

But she hadn't understood then, no more than she understood now.  _'_ _Unless you want to die tonight, Sansa Stark, you had better fucking cooperate with me. I'm not a patient man_. _'_ Sandor remembered the way her eyes widened at his words. Whether it was their brutishness or perhaps that fact that he knew her name, he didn't know, but he had spotted the look of sheer terror in her eyes nonetheless.

The night of the Royce's party Sandor had perched himself in a sequestered area of the room, watching as the partygoers meandered about and engaged one another in loud, pompous conversations. It had been mildly amusing to Sandor; watching as the social elite indulged themselves in alcohol, food, and egotistical banter, each trying to outdo the last and establish themselves as the Johnny Big Cock of Portland high society. But that hadn't been the reason Sandor attended the soiree. He gave precisely zero fucks about Nestor Royce and his little club of upper echelon assholes. Sandor was there for other reasons and so he had patiently waited from his vantage point, sipping on his cocktail and keeping a close eye on the room.

He had spotted Sansa immediately as she slid shyly along the wall, seemingly trying her best to disappear into the periphery of the Royce mansion's great room. Perhaps the pricks in suits and women with fake tits hadn't noticed Sansa. In that regard, she may have been successful when it came to hiding from them, melting into the wall and going unnoticed. They were too busy up their own asses to notice, but Sandor had noticed. He had seen her almost immediately. She was hard  _not_ to notice and not just because she was beautiful. Sansa carried herself with an innocent sort of femininity and grace. Whereas women twice her age paraded themselves around in dresses too tight, five pounds of clown make-up, and half a gallon of perfume, Sansa seemed confident yet shy, naïve yet intelligent, caught somewhere between the innocence of being a girl and the self-assuredness of being a woman. With his head spinning from whiskey, Sandor had watched her and reveled in the way she blushed whenever her eyes met his. Scandalized, she would look away, shift her nervous stare about the room until relenting once more and would timidly let her eyes flicker back to him.

He had wondered who she was and why exactly she was at a party like the Royce's. A daughter of a lawyer or politician perhaps. Marco had leaned over to Sandor and whispered in his ear, knowing full well who he was looking at and seemingly intuiting his musings.  _'She's Stark's daughter. Sansa.'_ Sandor couldn't help the smile that pulled on his lips. She was indeed a lawyer's daughter. Not just any lawyer, the District Attorney. And not just any District Attorney, but the one who had been clandestinely, or so he thought, building a case against the Moriarti Mafia,  _his_ Mafia.

Sansa. It was a pretty name; simple and sweet. He imagined how it might sound passing her lips. And her lips. She had beautiful lips. It hadn't taken him long to notice how they trembled when she was nervous.

 _Fuck that. The girl isn't nervous. She's afraid._ Sandor knew there was a difference. He had seen it in other women too. He wasn't one to make women nervous, to give them butterflies and make their hearts beat fast with anticipation. He scared women. They feared him.

Sandor knew the women he had been with were never attracted to him, not really. They were attracted to what he represented; power, danger, dominance, intrigue. He was imposing, intimidating, and rough, never sugar coating anything.  _If you don't like the truth, then you won't like me._ Apparently, it got some women off and he supposed it hadn't bothered him enough to stop them from spreading their legs for him. He would ride out until he reached an empty climax and then send them on their way, which they were typically more than happy to do. None had expressed any desire to stick around anyway, which was fine by him. They were usually desperate, attention seeking tramps. Not the type of woman he wanted to keep around him so he sent them on their merry way and none ever came back for more. Mirabelle had once tried to fix him up with one of her friends, a real nice girl she said. The woman had been nice, that much was true, and pretty, but she talked incessantly and grated on his every last nerve. Sandor didn't care much for bull shiting and pointless conversation that functioned just to fill the air. He had let the girl down easy, refusing a second date and telling Mirabelle she needed to get new friends. After that, he was done with dating. It didn't fucking matter anyway. He had given up on the idea of settling down with a wife and kids. Anything Sandor had ever loved or cared about, Gregor was hell-bent on taking away from him. Why put himself through that?

Snorting his defiance at the thought, Sandor pulled off his boxers and paced towards the shower. Reaching around to his lower back, he pulled off the bandages that covered the knife wound situated at his right side and stepped into the shower. The knife blade had missed his kidneys and lungs and the wound was mostly superficial. Still, it had infuriated him nonetheless. As the water rushed over the wound, Sandor pulled in an agitated breath; agitation because it fucking stung and because it reminded him of how close he had been to getting Sansa out of the Royce mansion.

He had been close; so  _fucking_ close and so intent on getting Sansa to calm the hell down that he hadn't noticed the Payne boy working his way around them. When the knife penetrated his back, Sandor had groaned more in annoyance than pain as he eased his weight off of Sansa. With just that little release, she had slipped out from underneath him and off into the night, setting in motion a series of events he was beginning to feel would haunt him for some time to come.

Indeed it did seem to haunt him. All through the night, he ran the scenarios over and over in his head. Wondering what he could have done differently, cursing his fate that he had to be there- the wrong place at the wrong time. He had tossed and turned, trying his damnedest to let the thoughts go as soon as they materialized in his head. There was nothing he could do about it now. Today needed to go as planned, to go off without a hitch. Eager to get the day started so he could get it over with, Sandor flipped off the water of the shower and pulled a towel around his waist.

The air outside of the bathroom was cold against his skin as he dropped his towel to the floor and stood in front of his open closet. Sandor chuckled to himself as he pulled out a pair of black dress paints and a starched, red button-up shirt. He felt like a cartoon character, wearing the same outfit almost every day; dress pants and a button up shirt. The Old Man had instilled in him early on that if he was going to be top dog of the Moriarti Mafia, he had to look the part. Sandor had been reluctant to oblige, but had done so anyway. He understood that the man spoke truly and relented as Mirabelle excitedly offered to fill his closet with dress clothes. Unwilling and admittedly unable to deny his baby sister anything that made her glow with that much happiness, Sandor had let Mirabelle pick out the clothes. After all, he had no desire to and she was good at that shit anyway.

After he dressed, Sandor put on his shoulder holster and secured his glocks before pulling on a suit jacket. He hated wearing a suit jacket. No matter how it had been tailored, the jacket always pulled tightly against his broad shoulders, making him feel claustrophobic and giving him an uneasy sense that he would have to work a little harder to remove his gun if the need arose. Swallowing hard and stepping into the hallway, Sandor hoped that the he wouldn't need his gun today.

As he paced down the hall, Sandor could hear Mirabelle's voice permeating from her bedroom. He couldn't make out the words, but he imagined she was tending to Sansa, talking the girl's ear off as Mirabelle was apt to do. His sister had seemed to have taken a shining to Sansa. So much so that Mirabelle had come to Sandor and expressed her genuine concern for the girl's well being. He had endured Mirabelle's lecture on how he needed to be gentle with Sansa and consider how scared and confused she must be.

Making his way down the stairs, Sandor scowled at the thought. He had already considered Sansa's fear and confusion. In fact, it was what had kept him up most of the night. He didn't need Mirabelle to remind him how scared the girl was. All he needed to do was look at Sansa to know she was terrified and furthermore she seemed to hate him although he imagined he couldn't really blame her on that tip.

Stepping into the parlor room, Sandor spotted Bronn seated casually in an arm chair. The man didn't so much as lift his eyes as Sandor slumped into the adjacent sofa with a groan. A chiming sound broke through the silence as the clock on the fireplace mantle announced the time with a series of reverberating tolls.

"Rough night?," Bronn asked nonchalantly as he picked at his nails with the blade of a pocket knife

Sandor remained silent, giving a slight nod of his head as Bronn stopped what he was doing and quizzically lifted his eyes to Sandor. Studying him for a few moments, Bronn began again, his voice tinged with hesitance.

"I heard the Old Man was giving you shit about Leon."

The Old Man hadn't needed to give Sandor shit about Leon. He had already known it was a mistake. A little chiding voice from within, a voice that sounded a lot like his sister's cautionary nagging, had told him it was a mistake from the beginning. Sandor had known Leon for eight years and had relied on him for previous jobs. The man was a tracker, his specialty was finding people. No matter how they covered their tracks or where they were hiding, Leon somehow managed to  _always_  find whoever he was looking for. Sandor never pressed for details on how he successfully completed his task. All that mattered to him was that Leon came though, time and time again. The man had always been eccentric, his habits bizarre and almost OCD. Bronn had held the belief that this was what made Leon so good at what he did. Sandor had somehow doubted that. Within the past couple of years, Leon's eccentricity had slowly evolved into full on psychosis. If he hadn't been desperate and if it hadn't been a last minute thing, Sandor wouldn't have called Leon the other night. But he was desperate and with each passing minute Sansa was getting further away and heading into an increasingly dangerous situation. Against his better judgment and Mirabelle's incessant yapping, Sandor had picked up his phone and called Leon despite the knotting in his stomach that told him it was a bad idea.

With each passing hour after he made the call, Sandor felt a darkening feeling starting to descend upon him.  _What if they got to her first?_ He didn't want to think about the thought, but as he waited for word from his men, from Bronn or Marco or Go-Go, Sandor couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen. He had sworn to himself that once Sansa was brought to him safely, he would never use Leon again as a tracker. The man was too much of a goddamn wildcard.

And then Sandor received the call that the Payne boy had been shot by Leon. He had thrown his phone at the wall with more force than he had thought he could. He wanted to rage. The Payne boy was to be dropped off back in Portland with his family. Sure, he'd be blindfolded, gagged, and thrown into a trunk. But he'd be safe; scared shitless no doubt, but safe. He was just a kid, a fucking seventeen or eighteen year old kid. Sandor wasn't his brother. He didn't kill kids just for the hell of it.

Sandor knew at that point Sansa wasn't safe. Leon could give a fuck what the plan was and what Sandor had requested of him. The man was mental, a psychopath. Even with Go-Go and Marco there, Sandor didn't trust Leon not to off them all so he had sent Bronn to personally bring Sansa to him. Not only did he trust Bronn, but the man was a tough son of a bitch, not someone to trifle with.

The Old Man had watched as Sandor paced about the basement alcove, pulling on a cigar and sucking down his whiskey way too fast. He knew what the Old Man wanted to say, he could see it behind his watchful eyes.  _I told you so, you stubborn jackass. I fucking told you. And now look what happens._ But the Old Man hadn't said that. Instead he just watched and waited along with Sandor, both men quietly lost in their own thoughts.

When he finally saw Sansa, Sandor could scarcely believe his eyes. It was her alright, but it looked as though she had been through hell and back. He knew it was Leon, he didn't have to be told. Before Go-Go, Marco, and Leon had set out Sandor had told them he would murder them and rape their corpses if she came back hurt. Go-Go and Marco knew better than to defy him. Leon had snarled a bitter laugh at that.

Eying the bruises about her neck, bruises that formed a perfect outline of fingers, Sandor felt his blood boil. And then there was the gash on her cheek; a bloody wound that was bruising along the edges as if she had been hit and hit  _hard_. To top it all off, her neck was bleeding, a straight line of blood drying on her skin. A knife wound most like.

Blind with rage, Sandor had flown from his seat and tore through the alcove towards the sounds of Leon's voice in the main room. The man's cheek was bleeding profusely and his eyes were wild with mania. If Sandor hadn't been so shocked at the man's appearance, he imagined he would have probably killed him right then and there.

Instead he went to Sansa and watched as she swiped at the tears falling from her eyes. The loose sleeves of her sweater had fallen from her wrists, exposing lesions where a rope had cut into her skin.  _Why the fuck had she been bound?_ Marco and Go-Go should have known better, they should have had enough sense to know that a seventeen year old girl didn't pose much of a threat to two grown men.

Furious, Sandor had fought hard to contain his anger long enough to wipe the blood from Sansa's throat. She flinched at his touch, as much out of disgust as pain.  _If only she understood._ Although that probably didn't matter. Even if she did know the truth of everything, he imagined she still wouldn't care. He had taken her from her family and she was scared out of her mind. She thought he was a monster, even said so herself.

Agitated at the thought, Sandor abruptly lifted himself from his seat and ran a hand through his hair as he paced back and forth. Bronn's face was watching him intently, curiosity creasing the corners of his eyes as he waited for a response.

"I don't want to talk about it. It's done with," Sandor rasped, pressing both hands to the edge of the mantle and leaning his weight against it, avoiding Bronn's stare.

Indeed it was done with, Leon was in pieces and on his way to floating somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. Relenting, Bronn lifted his hands up in acquiescence before leaning forward in his chair as he matter-of-factly inquired about the details of the day.

"I get it. I really do. However, I do need to know how many men we're taking with us today and how many you want to leave behind."

Sandor pulled himself away from the fireplace mantle and brought a hand up to rest beneath his chin as he slowly paced about the room. Mentally filing through how he imagined things might go down today, Sandor carefully enumerated the number of men he would require.  _Six. It should take no more than six. Double that number, twelve._ The Old Man had always told him to double his number of men. Whatever he thought he needed for a job, he always needed to double that number.  _'Better to have more men than you need than to have less,'_ the Old Man had always said. If the other night proved anything, it was that the Old Man knew what he was talking about.

"Ten men with us. With you and I that will be twelve of us. That should be enough to handle Emilio. The rest can stay behind and make sure things don't get out of hand here. I want Thomas watching Mirabelle though. She's not to go anywhere." Sandor pointed an index finger at Bronn, emphasizing each of his last words. Mirabelle was stubborn and hated being told what to do. She was likely to rebel just for the hell of it. If there was one day that he needed Mirabelle to listen to him, it needed to be today.

Bronn nodded his head, readily agreeing with Sandor's commands before inclining his stare up towards Sandor, mischievousness pooling in his eyes.

"Fair enough. And the Stark girl?"

Stopping mid-stride, Sandor turned towards Bronn, the seriousness gleaming in his eyes a juxtaposition to the playful curiosity plastered about Bronn's face.

"She stays with me," Sandor replied, his voice solemn and resolute.

Leaning forward in his chair, Bronn pointed the tip of his pocket knife towards Sandor, an impish smile curling about the man's lips.

"You're worried."

"What the fuck does that have to do with anything?," Sandor shot back, the irritation flaring within him. It was true. He was worried and he loathed that Bronn could always tell, but he wasn't about to fucking admit it.

"Everything. If you think something is going to happen, I need to know. We all need to know. We can take more men with us." Bronn's playfulness had melted away as he earnestly reasoned with Sandor, quietly beckoning him to put aside pride for the sake of safety.

Crossing his arms about his chest, Sandor's pacing came to a halt as he turned towards Bronn.

"Fine. Fifteen men, but I doubt he'll come, not now. He's waiting for things to die down, catch us when he knows we're not on guard. Still, I want her with me the entire time." Sandor's jaw set in a scowl as he relented. He hated that he needed to take more men with him. A week ago this job would have only required eight men tops. Now he had effectively doubled the number.

Pleased with himself, Bronn bounded to his feet and tucked his pocket knife away as he excitedly made his way towards Sandor.

"You got it, boss. I'll get them ready and briefed. We can giddy up on out of here at noon." Pushing his sleeve past his wrist, Bronn scrutinized his watch before continuing again. "I hope your little pop tart is ready by then."

Clapping Sandor on the back, Bronn sauntered from the room, whistling to himself as he wandered off towards the basement lounge.

Suddenly alone in the quiet room, Sandor shot a sideways glance towards the mantle clock.  _11:30. What the fuck am I supposed to do for a half an hour?_ Sandor had told her to be ready by noon and not to make him wait. He fucking hated to wait. It drove him bat-shit crazy. The Old Man told him he had too much restless energy; that he bottled up his anger which made him restless and therefore he needed to find a better way to channel his energy. Usually his "release" involved some sort of physical activity, the bloodier the better. Boxing had become his go-to activity when he felt the anger rising within him. One by one, his men would step up to challenge him and one by one his men would walk away with their faces a bloody mess.

Except now, pacing about the parlor with restlessness and anticipation, Sandor had no one to hit and was instead left in his own thoughts. He wanted a drink, but knew that was a bad idea. He drank to damn much as it was and had been trying to get it under control. Sometimes he felt his efforts were in vain as the bottle would lure him back in to wash away his worries on a sea of whiskey. Besides, he needed to be on top of his game today.

Sandor paced down the clock, wandering mindlessly back and forth throughout the room adrift in his own thoughts. Once in awhile he'd glance over at the clock, wishing away the time only to find that a few mere minutes had passed.

True enough, he hated to wait, but he wasn't normally this listless. Usually he could find something to occupy his time with and take his mind off of things. Typically he would shoot the shit with Bronn; grab a drink together and talk about guns while they played a hand or two of Texas Hold'em. When the clock hands finally met up on the number 12, the chiming sounds once more wailed out the time, each tone a panging reminder that he was now  _officially_  waiting on her. He had told her not to make him wait.

Sandor was surprised to find his typical irritation was laced with something else, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. His strides quickened has he shoved his hands into his pockets and let out an exasperated sigh. He felt like he was in one of those stupid fucking movies where the poor bastard is nervously waiting for his date to descend the stairs.

Stopping mid-stride, Sandor shook his head and let out a snort of laughter. Was that what it was, the thing he couldn't quite put his finger on? Could it be that he was  _nervous_?

Why the fuck was he nervous? It was a ridiculous feeling. Now that he thought about it, it was a feeling he hadn't felt in quite some time and one he wasn't about to give in to it. Instead, he focused on his irritation and how it was now nearing seven minutes past noon.

In the very least, he hoped his men would be ready, separated into the various cars and fully briefed. Waiting on Sansa Stark was one thing. Waiting on his men was quite another. They should know better than to keep him waiting. When Sandor told them to be ready by a certain time, they had better be ready well  _before_  that time. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat behind him.  _It's about fucking time!_

Turning towards the side entrance of the parlor, Sandor saw Mirabelle standing in the doorway, smiling sweetly as she often did in an effort to negate his anger.

"Ta-da!"

Mirabelle stepped aside, gracefully extending her arms out as if she were show casing something like some sort of Vanna White.

As Sansa stepped into the room with small, timid steps, Sandor had to do a double take. He knew nothing of dresses or make-up or what women did in the bathroom to get ready. All he knew was that the girl standing before him looked even more beautiful than she did when he had first seen her; a feat he didn't think was possible. Her auburn hair had been straightened and fell in glossy cascades to the middle of her back. He supposed Mirabelle had done her make-up; it looked similar to how Mirabelle applied her own, but was toned down some. Regardless, it brought out her eyes, making them the focal point of her face and rightfully so. And her lips. Goddamnit, her lips were doing that quivering thing again, something between a tremble and a pout. And fucking hell, he was staring at her again.

Pulling his eyes away from Sansa, Sandor swept his stare towards the clock and growled out the only thing he could think of to break the heavy silence that had descended in the room as Mirabelle and Sansa stared up at him anticipatingly.

"You're late." With that, Sansa bit her lip as she gave him a doe-eyed stare. Determined to maintain his resolve, Sandor held Sansa's stare until Mirabelle swatted him on the arm playfully before turning proudly back towards her "creation."

"Oh, calm down. She's well worth the wait."

Mirabelle had him there, but he sure as hell wasn't about to admit that out loud. Instead, he worked his way towards Sansa in hurried steps. As he approached, she let her eyes fall to the floor as she anxiously folded her hands in front of her and flinched away from him. It shouldn't have bothered him. It really shouldn't have. Almost a foot taller than the average man and boasting about twice the muscle mass, Sandor knew he was an intimidating man. Hell, he used that to his advantage most of the time. However the way she tensed and pulled back ever so slightly as he took her by the arm sent a wave of agitation through him. But once more, he couldn't blame the girl.

Turning towards Mirabelle, Sandor pointed at her with an index finger and mustered up all the seriousness he could manage.

"Thomas is going to stay here and keep an eye on you. You aren't to leave, Mirabelle. Not until we get back. Understood?"

Rolling her eyes and flashing an obnoxious grin, Sandor watched as his sister placed one hand on her hip and saluted him with the other.

"Yes, sir!"

Sandor narrowed his eyes at Mirabelle and groaned in annoyance.

"Don't call me that."

With that Sandor retreated from the room with Sansa close behind. He hated when people called him that.

* * *

Sansa struggled to keep up with the Hound as he strode down the hallway towards the open foyer of the house. She took her steps double time just to keep pace. He was angry. No, he was more than that. He was upset  _and_ angry. She had seen him angry before and the way he seemed to lash out in a blind fury. The man had a temper, that she knew for sure and she was relieved that it did not flare to its full force as she made the Hound wait a whopping eight minutes for her. Yet somewhere mingled with the anger was something she hadn't seen in him before. He seemed to be upset and troubled by something.

Mirabelle had gotten up early to bake banana chocolate chip muffins and insisted that Sansa eat at least two. The woman had felt bad after Sansa confided that she hadn't eaten much dinner the night before, seeing as how Sandor abruptly ended their dinner "date."

Giggling over muffins and orange juice, Mirabelle and Sansa had lost track of time. Shoving half a muffin into her mouth, Mirabelle squealed as she looked at the clock and realized it was close to seven minutes past noon. Pulling Sansa from her chair and hurriedly shuffling her down the hall, the two women made their way towards the parlor. Sansa was almost certain the Hound would lash out at her, tell her he told her not to make him wait. No, he told her not to make him  _fucking_ wait. He had thrown that in for good measure it seemed.

As Mirabelle presented her, Sansa was surprised to find that he did not lash out. Instead, he considered her with a strange sort of calmness, his eyes roving over her. He had been staring at her, but it wasn't the same way he had stared at her before. Something about it was different; it wasn't a lewd, drunken stare nor was it the furious glowering she had expected. It was almost-  _almost-_  like he had been nervous. Sansa shook her head at the thought. That was ridiculous. Far be it for the Hound to get nervous of all things.

As they stepped from the front door of the house, Sansa squinted her eyes against the glaring sun which rode to its peak in the sky. Suddenly the thought struck her. She hadn't really taken notice of where the mansion was situated. True enough, she knew they were somewhere in the desert still; the air was dry and the warmth almost suffocating. In the distance and on all sides, mountains peered from the horizon swathed in hazy colors of blue and green. The house maintained the style of a Mediterranean villa; the stucco exterior walls had been painted beige and the roof was overlapped layers of Spanish clay tiles. The front drive was a stone-paved semi-circle which boasted an elaborate decorative fountain at its center. The property was feebly shaded with palm trees and dotted with cacti gardens. Waiting outside the drive were five black Mercedes sedans, each with dark black tinted windows and humming as the engines ran.

Sansa followed Sandor towards the first car, still scampering behind him as he hurriedly paced towards the vehicle. Beyond telling her that she was late, he hadn't acknowledged her much and instead steadfastly made his way outside and towards the cluster of waiting vehicles. Therefore, it caught Sansa by surprise as he stopped in front of the passenger door, pulling it open and turning towards her. With slow steps, she closed the gap of space between them. As she hesitantly approached the open door, her eyes flittered up towards him. With a soft nod, he wordlessly motioned his head towards the open door, beckoning her get in. Sansa lowered herself into the sedan and felt the cool blast of the air conditioner against her bare skin. Once tucked into the car, the Hound closed the door shut behind her and circled to the driver's side. Turning her head over her shoulder, Sansa noticed the back seat was empty. Considering her ordeal in the backseat the previous evening with Leon, Sansa let out a sigh of relief.

Opening the driver's side door, Sansa watched as the Hound pulled his suit jacket off and tossed it onto the back seat of the car. Beneath his jacket he wore a shoulder holster bedecked with two pistols. He had worn it the previous night and she sensed it was a silent threat to any that wished to cross him. Although her father owned a gun, he certainly didn't wear it strapped to his body. Instead, it was tucked away in the night stand drawer. Ironically, her Dad had told her where the gun was when he started working on the Moriarti case. In case anything should ever happen, he had told her. Now here she was in a car with the Moriarti mob boss and his  _two_ guns. Sansa's reverie was broken as the Hound pulled down the mansion's drive and onto a two lane road.

"Do the guns make you that nervous, girl?"

The question caught her off guard. She didn't notice that he had shifted his gaze to her and seemed to pick up on her apprehensiveness. Swallowing hard, Sansa let her eyes fall to her hands folded tightly in her lap.

"I'm just not used to it, that's all," she replied, refusing to meet the Hound's intent stare. The better question was did  _he_ make her nervous. The answer to that was clear in her mind and a resounding  _'yes.'_ She still had no idea, not a clue, why they were going to Las Vegas and what fate awaited her there. She imagined if the Hound felt the need to strap guns to his body, there was a chance that whatever was in store for her wasn't good. Sansa bit her lip hard at the thought and tried to quell the meanderings of her worried mind.

Settling her stare out the car window, Sansa noticed a highway sign fly by in her vision. They were heading south on highway 95. The interstate extended north through Oregon and Idaho and expanded south through California and Nevada before terminating in Arizona at the Mexican border.  _South on 95. But where? South from Oregon? South from California?_

Evaluating the landscape outside the passenger window, Sansa imagined they were somewhere in Nevada or California. The desert extended on either side of the road, cacti whizzing by as they sped towards Las Vegas, the jewel of the desert. She had never been to Las Vegas, hadn't any reason to go really. There was nothing to do in Vegas, but drink and gamble; activities which required she be 21 years old. Myranda had once tried to talk her into getting a fake ID and going on a road trip to Vegas. Sometimes Sansa wondered if Myranda ever really understood her and truly got what kind of person Sansa was. Remembering the look of surprise and disappointment on Myranda's face when she had abruptly declined, Sansa imagined that Myranda either didn't know or didn't really care who Sansa was at the end of the day.

Shifting her gaze towards the clock, Sansa realized they had only been in the car for maybe 30 minutes tops, definitely no more than that. Why did time  _still_ seem as if it was dragging on? Not only did she not know  _why_ they were going to Vegas, she didn't even know how long it was going to take to get there. The Hound had been silent thus far, except for the whole gun conversation which had lasted precisely two minutes at most. Sansa let her eyes move towards him. With his left wrist hung over the steering wheel, his right elbow was leaning on the arm rest. He looked comfortable, which in her mind meant that this was going to be a long ride.  _God I hope not._

"What?," he growled out, the impatience wearing on his voice. Once more, Sansa hadn't thought that he noticed her staring at him. Come to think of it,  _she_ hadn't even noticed that she was staring.

"Nothing," she lied, turning her eyes away and crossing her arms tightly about her chest. The air conditioner was on full blast and was quickly becoming over kill.

Unrelenting and unwilling to let it go, the Hound pressed for more, his eyes narrowing to slits as he turned a knowing glance towards her with a smile playing about his lips.

"You were staring at me."

She had been staring at him, that much was true, but it was more that she had been lost in her own thoughts. Eager to spur the conversation to something less uncomfortable or to stymie it altogether, Sansa feigned her bemusement.

"Sorry, I didn't notice."

The Hound exhaled a laugh at that and shook his head before offering her a playful response.

"You're a terrible liar. It's not nice to stare at people, you know."

Sansa had to stifle her own laughter at that. Now  _that_ was ridiculous.

"You stare at me."

The words flew out of her mouth before she could stop them. Sansa had only meant to think them, not say them, even if they were true. He did have a habit of letting his eyes linger a bit longer than they should, but she doubted he would appreciate being called out on it. Sansa lowered her head, but out of the periphery of her vision she could see the Hound's jaw clench tightly and the corner of his mouth drop to a scowling frown.  _God! Why, why, WHY did I say that?_

"I don't stare at you," he said flatly, his voice monotone and betraying nothing of his emotion. Sansa breathed out her relief and settled back into her seat. She had half expected him to rage at her smart-ass response, but he hadn't. Instead he seemed to retreat within himself and into a sulking silence.

Sansa mindlessly rubbed her bare arms and shifted her gaze out of the window. The highway had been desolate for much of the trip. They had passed maybe a handful of cars at most. Sansa surmised they were nearing Las Vegas; the highway gained a number of lanes and traffic was picking up. With the air hitting her full blast, Sansa shot an annoyed glance at the air vents. She wanted to turn down the air or at least shut the vents on her side. Seemingly, the Hound was a reader of thoughts. Before she could work up the courage to lean forward and flick her vent closed, his voice interrupted the silence.

"Are you cold?" Despite the question, the Hound leaned forward and turned the fan knob down.

"A little," Sansa responded, shyly lifting her eyes as the Hound reached towards the backseat and felt around for his jacket.

"Here. Take this."

Sansa hesitated a moment before reaching out and taking the jacket. The fabric was soft in her hands and smelled like his cologne. Although loathe to admit it, his smell was beginning to become familiar to her. She recognized it as easily as she had recognized his voice permeating through the floor of her bedroom last night. Sansa draped the jacket over her shoulders and pulled it shut in front of her. It might as well have been a blanket with the way his jacket seemed to swallow her whole. He was quite possibly the largest man she had ever known; tall, so tall, and absurdly muscular. Lifting her eyes to him, Sansa contemplated Sandor in the seat next to her. The unburned side of his face was visible to her and he seemed to be lost in his thoughts, his icy eyes focusing intently on the road. The longer she spent in his "world," the less things were making sense. He opened doors and offered jackets yet gave the orders for what happened at the Royce's party. He can't be a gentleman and a murderer. That was...well…it was just crazy.

"You're staring again. Out with it. What's on your mind?," he interrupted, glancing towards her with a half smile pulling on his lips.

 _How much time do you have?_  If she only could tell him everything on her mind. If only she could file through that mental rolodex that was amassing in her brain.  _If only…._

"Why are we going to Las Vegas?," Sansa softly responded, her voice escaping her lips quieter than she had intended. It seemed as good a question as any and she held out the vain hope it might bring her closer to knowing the truth in its entirety.

"I own a gambling establishment," he replied, having heard her despite her sudden shyness.  _What that what it is? Shyness?_

"A casino?"

The Hound chuckled at this, a genuine laugh that creased the corners of his eyes and pulled on his lips. It was the first time she had heard him laugh, truly laugh. Not a bitter laugh, not a mocking laugh, but an actual sincere, normal laugh. And although she didn't know what was funny, she took it anyway.

"Not quite. Casinos are regulated by the gaming commission. They oversee operations and make sure things are running legit. Most people who come to Vegas to gamble don't really care one way or another. But high rollers do care. Their winnings are taxable, they don't want them to be. I take away that burden from them, but for profit of course."

Sansa's brow furrowed in confusion as she turned towards the Hound, letting his jacket fall off of one of her shoulders.

"That's how you make a living then?"

Shaking his head, he turned his eyes towards Sansa, but let them flutter back towards the road as his eyes caught her bare shoulder.

"Partially. Racketeering, in many forms, is how I earn my living. I don't spend my time in Vegas though. And I sure as hell don't live there. I've never really seen what was so appealing about the city. So I have a man by the name of Emilio Ventimiglia manage my Vegas card rooms. We are going to Vegas to pay Emilio a visit."

Despite his calm, matter-of-fact tone, Sansa somehow doubted it was going to be a friendly visit replete with cookies, lemonade, and polite conversation.

"Has he done something wrong?," she pressed, her voice catching slightly in her throat with a swelling of fear.

"That's what I am going to find out," the Hound began as he turned to look at Sansa. This time he didn't look at her bare shoulder, but instead let his eyes settle on her worried face. Something in his expression had softened, almost as if he was trying to reassure her. "My men have told me that he has. I'll be the judge of that though. I can smell a lie a mile away. If the man lies to me, I will know and then he and I will have some problems to work out. Nothing for you to worry too much about, Little Bird."

It was too late. She was already worried. She didn't like the sound of it, not at all. If Emilio was indeed doing something he wasn't supposed to, she doubted that the Hound would sit him down, give him a stern talking to, and then leave.

"What did he do?" Sansa's curiosity had gotten the better of her, but she wanted to know. Besides, if the Hound was insisting she come along, she at least deserved to know what she was getting into.

For many moments, a silence filled the car as the Hound kept his eyes on the road. She had begun to think he hadn't heard her and was ready to repeat her question, but finally he broke the silence as the low timbre of his voice filled the car.

"Drugs. He's pushing drugs through my establishment for profit on the side. He's got familial tie-ins with one of the drug cartels. He has always sworn that he doesn't associate with the family business. I'm not fucking stupid though. He's a greedy man so I have no doubt he's dipping into the drug trade. I could care less what the man does on his own time. But I don't deal with drugs or the drug trade. Its dirty business and I have no tolerance for it in my organization."

Something about that surprised Sansa. From the outside, the thought was absurd; crime was crime. Whether it was the drug trade or racketeering or homicide, they were all terrible as far as she was concerned. Yet the passion and veracity behind his voice intimated a sort of moral code by which he was determined to live. It seemed odd to her; that he could massacre a house full of people without so much as a second thought yet he was vehemently opposed to the drug business. There seemed to be a disconnect that she couldn't quite understand. Why was one acceptable, but the other wasn't?

As they pulled off of the highway, Sansa hadn't the time to ponder it. From their vantage point she could see the Vegas skyline. With the sun still high in the sky, Sansa could only imagine what the city looked like at night. A disco ball perhaps. Or a pile of glitter in the desert. It had only taken them an hour and a half to get to the city. Sansa filed away that knowledge in her memory.  _An hour and a half north on Highway 95 from Vegas. That's where the Hound is._

Turning down side roads, the car began traveling west and from the passenger side mirror Sansa saw the city melting away into the distance. Suddenly, her heart began to flutter with fear.  _He said we were going to Vegas. He said we were going to pay a visit to his friend._

"This doesn't look like Las Vegas." Sansa abruptly broke the silence as the fear began to pulse through her body in time with the beating of her heart.

"There's more to Vegas than the strip, Little Bird. We're on the outskirts of the strip." Once more the Hound's voice was calm and tinged with an attempt at reassurance. He called her Little Bird. It had initially been a name to mock her. However, somehow it had evolved to him using it in instances she was sure he could tell that she was afraid. Somehow it seemed to work. Sansa let herself settle back in her seat as he continued once more.

"The goal is to keep my establishments off of the radar. If someone wants to come to my card rooms, they have to know where they are. The only way they're going to know that is if they know me or Emilio."

Sansa's brow knitted in confusion as they pulled into an old area of town, the buildings maintaining a kitschy 1960's Vegas façade. The Hound had said he didn't care much for Vegas. Sansa could see where he was coming from. It seemed cheesy to her and beyond that she didn't like the vibe the city was putting off. It seemed superficial, vapid, and indulgent.

The car rolled to a stop as the Hound parked behind a corner building, a building that boasted a vintage looking sign that read 'M. L. Berneski and Son's Drugs and Prescriptions.' Once more Sansa was at a loss.  _Really, a drug store?_  Sensing her profound confusion, the Hound shifted in his seat and turned towards Sansa.

"It's like a speakeasy, but for gambling. I can't very well put up a sign in bright lights that says 'The Hound's Illegal Gambling Establishment.'"

Sansa laughed at that. Not a nervous laugh or a bitter laugh, but a genuine laugh that wrinkled her nose and pulled on her lips. The Hound must have noticed the sincerity because he chuckled in return before swinging his door open and circling around to open Sansa's door for her.

Hovering in the space of the open door was Sandor's hand extended to her in a gentlemanly gesture to help her out of the car. Sansa shifted her stare up towards him as she placed her hand in his. Gently he wrapped his fingers around her hand and pulled her from the car. From her extended arm, the Hound's jacket fell off her shoulder. Sansa's eyes flittered to his gun holster and imagined he might want his jacket to remain a little more discreet.

In one motion, Sansa shrugged the jacket from her shoulders and made to hand it to Sandor. Settling his eyes on her, the Hound shook his head and draped the jacket back over her shoulders. Her body tensed slightly as she felt his fingers brush over her bare shoulders ever so slightly.

"Keep it. In case you get cold." His voice was oddly warm; a deep rasp, but warm.

 _A gentleman and a Hound._ It made no sense to her. None at all.

* * *

It had been too long since he had come here last.  _Way_  too fucking long. But then again, where the hell was he supposed to find time to make trips out to Vegas? Wasn't that the whole point of having Emilio out here in the first place?

As he helped the Little Bird out of the car and draped his suit jacket over her shoulders, Sandor lifted his eyes to the store front.  _M.L. Berneski and Son's._ The Old Man had secured the location long ago and situated one of the former underbosses to manage the business, the legit drugstore business. The style of the store was something out of an old movie; that was the style of the Old Man. Sandor imagined it was fashioned to look like an old soda fountain shop from the Old Man's youth. From the black and white tiled floors to the 1950's barstools to the wood and glass displays which showcased glass containers of candy, Sandor pictured the Old Man as a little boy spending his time someplace similar to this.

One by one his men filed out of the Mercedes sedans. With a head count, Sandor confirmed the number. Fifteen men including him and Bronn. Although he hoped that was overkill and he was just being overly cautious given the events of the other evening, Sandor couldn't help but acknowledge the twisting he felt at the pit of his stomach. He had felt the same way the night of the Royce's party yet he had ignored it then. He sensed that Sansa felt a similar anxiety, but then again he imagined her nervousness was a given considering he had kept her in the dark about damn near everything.  _The less she knows the better._ Sandor convinced himself that that was true. However, he was now beginning to feel that perhaps that thought was a bit misguided. But now was not the time to explain everything to Sansa. He had business to take care of and the sooner he got it over with, the better. _That_ he knew for sure.

With Bronn to his left and Sansa to his right, Sandor led his men into the drugstore through a side entrance. The overhead Tiffany lamps filled the shop with a dull glow as an Italian tenor voice bellowed through the room behind the soft static scuffling of a record player. Behind the counter, Sandor spotted Alonzo shuffling about. The man was old, probably 10 years older than the Old Man and spoke with a heavy Italian accent. Despite the fact that he immigrated to America some 40 years ago, Alonzo clung to his Italian heritage and spoke his native language whenever he could. For the past 20 years, the man had run the drugstore business. It was by no means thriving, but offered Alonzo the chance to bullshit with his costumers and gave him something with which to keep his mind and his hands occupied. Sandor saw as Alonzo brushed aside his thinning grey hair and lifted his eyes to men filing into his store. Lighting up with a million-watt smile, Alonzo dropped the broom in his hand and made his way around the counter towards Sandor. The man extended his arms and pulled Sandor in for a hug as his eyes swept over the room.

"Buon pomeriggio! You wait too long to see me. Did you get taller since last time you visit?" Alonzo's voice swelled with warmth despite his thick accent and somewhat broken English. He asked the same question of Sandor every time he saw him. Sandor hadn't grown for probably ten years, but he always humored the question anyway.

"It's doubtful," Sandor replied, smiling down at Alonzo and forgetting why he had waited so long to come back Vegas. He hated the city, but Alonzo was like a grandfather to him. If anything, he needed to come and pay the man a visit more often.

Slowly, Alonzo had pulled away from Sandor and went wide eyed like a deer in headlights. Something had caught his full attention. Enchanted, the man had fallen silent, something which happened only once in a blue moon.

"Who is this beautiful girl?," Alonzo called out over his shoulder as he took steps towards Sansa, beaming with merriment.

Stepping forward, Sandor took Sansa gently by the arm and led her towards Alonzo.

"Alonzo this is Sansa," Sandor replied almost proudly. Before he could say much more, Alonzo came forward and pulled Sansa away from Sandor as he grinned like a mad man.

"Saaaaaan- _suh_!," Alonzo drew out her name, emphasizing the last syllable with an animated nod of his head. "Your name sounds like music. You like music?"

"Very much so." Blushing sweetly, Sansa swept her eyes hesitantly across the room as she became timidly aware that much of the attention was solely on her.

"Do you know Jimmy Roselli?," Alonzo inquired at he took Sansa's hands into his own. Flashing a gentle smile, Sansa shook her head and shyly let her eyes fall to the floor.

"Ooooh! Sansa! Jimmy Roselli sings ' _Malafemmena_.' It's about a man who love woman. Woman break man heart and the man sing his sorrow. Beautiful Sansa too sweet to break man heart, yes?"

"I can't say that I've ever tried." With her sweet smile giving way to a devilish grin, Sansa lifted her eyes to Alonzo. They seemed to glisten bluer than Sandor remembered. He knew she had blue eyes, but he hadn't noticed they were  _that_ blue.

Alonzo threw his head back with a roar of laughter as he patted his belly. After catching his breath, Alonzo turned towards Sandor and shifted his stare to Sansa before bringing his eyes back to Sandor once more.

"Funny girl! Pretty girl! Is she your girl, Sandor?"

Just like that it was now Sandor who felt all the eyes of the room suddenly on him. And now it was him who let his eyes wander to the floor before lifting his gaze to Alonzo as he shook his head. With a wide grin, Alonzo shuffled over to Sandor and clapped him on the back. Reaching up to wrap his arm around Sandor's shoulders, Alonzo turned his stare towards Sansa who was biting her lip and staring wide-eyed directly at him.  _Fucking hell. Why does she have to look at me like that? And with the lip thing too._

"You sing ' _Malafemmena_ ' to her every day, Sandor, until Sansa is your girl. Capisci?"

Sandor may not speak Italian, but he understood what Alonzo was saying and that the man had misinterpreted why Sansa was with him. He supposed he could explain it to Alonzo, tell the man that not only did he  _not_ sing, but that he certainly wasn't going to be singing to Sansa Stark. Indeed he could have told him, but instead Sandor let Alonzo go on thinking that he'd be singing " _Malafemmena_ " to Sansa every day until she was his girl. There was no harm in letting the man think that and besides, he had business to attend to. He didn't have time to explain things to Alonzo. Not now at least.

After allowing Alonzo to fawn over Sansa for another few minutes while he regrouped his men, Sandor slowly made his way over to Alonzo and patted the man on the back.

"I've got some business to take care of. We'll see you on the way out," Sandor interrupted as he gently took Sansa by the arm.

"You be good to her, Sandor," Alonzo chided playfully as he waged a bony finger at him before turning to Sansa and pulling her away from Sandor yet again and into a warm embrace. "Bella Sansa, call your friend Alonzo if you need me to come and straighten him out."

Sansa smiled and kissed Alonzo delicately on the cheek. In all the time Sandor had known Alonzo, he doubted he had ever seen the man smile as brightly as he was in that moment; his grin easily extended from ear to ear. The room buzzed with laughter as Alonzo made his way around the counter and picked up his broom.

Pushing through a door on the other end of the room, Sandor led the way down a dimly lit corridor which terminated in a stair case at the end of the hall. Down the staircase and through another door they entered a large open area of the card room. The room wasn't large by any means, but it catered to the lavish lifestyles of its patrons. Sandor didn't know shit about decorating so he had let Emilio take care of it. Looking around the room once more, Sandor realized how fucking ridiculous some of the décor was. Truly, it looked like he had unleashed Liberace in here; everything seemed to glitter with gold and jewels and if it didn't, it was only because it was lined in fur.

If the look on Sansa's face was anything to go by, Sandor imagined she mimicked his sentiment. She had slowed her pace to a halt as her eyes contemplated the room, from the crystal light fixtures to the gaudy, gold framed mirrors. From the corner of his eye, Sandor spotted one of Emilio's men making his way across the room towards him. Shifting his gaze about the open area of poker tables, Sandor was pleased to find his men taking their places. He had wanted his men securing all exits to the room. Sandor's trust in Emilio only went so far and if the man really was involved in business he shouldn't be involved in, the man very well may already be on the defensive.

The man who retrieved Sandor looked to be young and scared shitless. His slicked back hair was stuck to his head with about a pound of gel and he refused to meet Sandor's insistent stare and instead mumbled a few words in Spanish before leading Sandor and Bronn towards a private room in the back.

Still seemingly mesmerized by the garishness of the room, Sansa stood transfixed and didn't seem to notice as Sandor began towards the back of the room. Turning over his shoulder, Sandor finally caught her gaze and motioned her over with a nod of his head. As she made her way over to him in tentative steps, Sandor could see that her body had tensed up. She was nervous or scared or maybe both. Fuck, it didn't matter to him. She seemed to sense the rising tension in the room as much as he did. Stepping closer to her, Sandor tried to reassure her and set her at ease the best he could. It was the least he could do.

"Hopefully this won't take long. Just stay next to me and you'll be fine." Sandor searched her face and was surprised to find that the worried look in her eyes had softened a bit and instead of biting her lips, she had let them part slightly. Realizing Bronn was waiting for them, Sandor turned abruptly away from Sansa and paced towards the private room in the back.

Inside he found Emilio Ventimiglia, Mr. Liberace himself complete with a fucking ridiculous blue satin shirt that had been unbuttoned at the top and was exposing tufts of black chest hair. His fingers were bedecked with gold jewel rings while his jet black hair fell in greased waves past his shoulders. Hanging off of each arm and on either side of him were two women. If the absurd amount of make-up they wore or the amount of skin they were showing were any indication, these women were escorts. Everything was a show of power, from the prostitutes to his jewelry to the Cuban cigar he was smoking. Sandor chuckled softly to himself. This man was clearly already on the defensive and content to go out of his way to demonstrate some sort of bejeweled authority. Sandor found this simultaneously entertaining and infuriating.

As Bronn settled into the corner of the room, Sandor pulled a chair out for Sansa before seating himself next to her. She was trembling. He hadn't even needed to touch her to know it. Apparently, Emilio picked up on it too. Pulling in deeply on his cigar and puffing smoke rings into the air, the man shifted his gaze towards Sansa and smiled lasciviously before shooting an amused stare at Sandor.

"And who's this little coquette?" Emilio's words were thick with the lushness of a Spanish accent. He knew English and he knew it well, unlike Alonzo. To Emilio, his accent played into the Casanova character he so desperately seemed to cling to. Without it, he was nothing but a Mexican-American who grew up in a poor suburb of Los Angeles.

"Sansa this is Emilio. Emilio this is Sansa." Despite introducing Sansa first, Sandor kept his eyes steadfast on Emilio. And while Sandor knew he was boring through the man with his intense glare, he somehow couldn't find it in himself to care. Not even as the tension began to fill the room at a suffocating rate.

"Stark's daughter. Impressive," Emilio mused as he took a sip from his cocktail glass and let his eyes rove over Sansa. From the corner of his eye, Sandor could see her slink back in her chair, seemingly trying to put as much distance between herself and Emilio as possible.  _Fucking prick. I should have left her with Alonzo. God Dammit._

Undeterred and probably encouraged by Sansa's adversity to him, Emilio leaned in closer, his hideous gold chain falling against the table as he spoke.

"How old are you, sweet Sansa?"

Sandor had had enough. He needed to keep his cool. Despite this, all he wanted to do was lunge across the table and snap Emilio's neck. He wasn't sure where the man had gotten his gall. Working to maintain his demeanor, Sandor curled his hands into tight fists and growled out a response, but not before staring daggers at the man.

"I didn't come here so that you can interrogate her."

Lifting his hands in acquiescence, Emilio settled back in his chair and let out a chuckle before regarding Sandor with a disingenuous smile.

"Fair enough. I hope you have not taken offense my friend. I haven't seen you with a lady friend before. My curiosity must have gotten the better of me. Apologies."

The sentiment was fake and Sandor knew it. Everything about this bastard was insincere, from his pimp-like façade to his seedy smiles and guileful manners. It was a show and Sandor knew what was behind the curtain.

"Can I offer you something to drink?," Emilio chimed in as he feigned yet another toothy grin. "You're a scotch man. I have a Dalmore 62 I have been waiting to open. One of the last bottles left in the world."

Dalmore 62, a bottle of scotch that cost more than some people make in a year. Fantastic. Now Sandor knew for sure Emilio was padding his income. Who the fuck spends nearly $60,000 on a bottle of whiskey?

Shaking his head and feeling his impatience beginning to stir within him, Sandor rested his elbow on the table and leaned his weight against it. For many moments, he remained quiet and contemplated Emilio. The man was too cocky, too puffed up. He seemed to have forgotten that Sandor had pulled him off of the streets and graciously set him up with a steady income. It was enough to live comfortably, not luxuriously. If anything, Sandor needed to remind Emilio where he came from and just how easily he could go back there.

"How is business?," Sandor started in as he watched the man's eyes. He had told the Little Bird the truth. He knew when people lied to him. He could see it in their eyes; the way they shifted ever so slightly and seemed to dilate just a bit.

"Business is business," Emilio responded with a shrug of the shoulders as he let his eyes shift away from Sandor. "The regulars shuffle money through here and I shuffle it to you. The cash flow is quite nice, wouldn't you say?"

Sandor was annoyed by the question. In fact, it infuriated him. How dare this little prick try to one up him at his own game? Did he forget who he was dealing with? Sandor felt a rush of anger pump through him as he pounded his fist on the table.

"I'm not worried about the fucking cash flow, Emilio." His voice bellowed loudly through the small room and in the periphery of his vision he saw Sansa jump a little in her seat, startled by his reaction. At least he hoped she was just startled and not scared. He had hoped by now she was starting to realize he wasn't going to hurt her.  _Surely she has to know that._ Somehow he doubted it and the thought bothered him more than it should.

"Alright then. What vexes you so, amigo? I take care of things here and you are free to take care of things where you are. I get my portion of the profit and you get yours."

Sandor snorted a mocking laugh as he extended his arm in a sweeping motion towards Emilio and his escorts.

"You're smoking Cubans and drinking Dalmore. You've got high class whores hanging off of each arm. I pay you well, but not that well. Now I'll ask you this once and only once. Where the hell is your extra income coming from?"

Sandor didn't know what to expect. What he had hoped was that Emilio would relent, give up the goddamn charade, and admit what he had been doing. But Sandor wasn't naïve and he knew how things worked in this business. He had been doing it too damn long.  _'A man's most prized possession is his ego. That is especially true in our business. He will take it to the grave if need be. The only way to truly disarm a man is to strip him of his ego.'_ The Old Man's words rung in Sandor's mind and as Emilio's eyes narrowed to slits, Sandor knew the man wasn't about to relent.

"You're not the only one in this business," Emilio shot back derisively. "I have my own rackets. It's just that mine are more profitable than yours it seems." With that, Emilio turned towards his escorts and draped his arms over each of their shoulders, letting each of his hands snake beneath the tops of their dresses as he brushed their breasts with his fingertips.

Once more, Sandor could see Sansa shift in the seat beside him. He could feel her disgust radiating off of her. It seemed to match his own.

"You can keep your fucking profits," Sandor snarled at Emilio as he shifted closer to Sansa, as if that would shield her from this fucking creep.

"I pay for my lifestyle, for them," Emilio responded as he gestured towards both of his whores. "Some might say that's not a respectable way to live. I say it beats kidnapping. What do you say, mi carino?"

Emilio posed the question to Sansa who went stiff as stone as the man turned his shifty gaze towards her and patiently awaited an answer. Wordlessly, her mouth hung open as her eyes, wide as saucers, turned towards Sandor with helpless pleading. Sandor wasn't going to let her answer that question. He wasn't going to dignify it with an answer and furthermore he wasn't going to let Emilio talk to her that way.

"Ernesto Mendoza. Does that name ring a bell to you, Emilio?" Sandor's voice was thick with rage now as he leaned his weight against the table, the table which was the only thing- the  _only_ fucking thing- that was stopping him from ripping Emilio apart.

"You see, I had a very similar conversation with him. Do you know where he is now?," Sandor continued as Emilio stared blankly at him. The man recognized the name. Sandor could see it in his eyes which dilated slightly with fear.

"I couldn't tell you," Emilio shot back venomously. With that, Sandor knew he had backed the man in a corner and given him something to fear. It wasn't an idle threat. Sandor didn't offer those. Everything he threatened was real otherwise he didn't bother. What was the point? When he threatened something, he made sure to follow through on it.

"Neither can I. He's somewhere in the Colorado River, that's all I know for sure." Sandor settled back in his seat and crossed his arms about his heaving chest. He was angry. No, he was more than angry. He was fucking livid, but he had expected as much.

"What's your point, Ese?" Despite being in a corner, Emilio's ego and attitude were more resilient than Sandor would have imagined. The man wasn't going down without a fight and Sandor was tired of dealing with the bastard.

"Cocaine is a lucrative business. And heroin. Your uncles are involved in the heroin and cocaine trade. They've worked their way up the cartel hierarchy. This isn't the lifestyle of a racketeer."

Sandor gestured towards Emilio, his elaborately decorated private room, and all the things contained within it.

"All of this is bought and paid for by cartel money. The Moriarti don't deal in drugs. It's fucking filthy business. I told you that from the get-go and you swore up and down you felt the same way. Ernesto Mendoza tried to pull the same shit on me. He didn't live to tell about it. So unless you want to join your amigo at the bottom of a river, you had better deal straight with me."

Emilio sucked in a deep breath and put his cigar out in an ashtray before unwrapping his arms from around the hookers. Exhaling his breath, the man let his eyes fall away from Sandor as his voice lowered to a defeated tone.

"Ladies, would you excuse us?"

With that, the hookers obliged and lifted themselves from their seats and made for the door. Sandor had told Bronn he wanted Sansa with him the entire time, but she didn't need to be witness to this and he was already beginning to feel the pangs of guilt that he exposed her to Emilio in the first place. Swiveling slightly in his seat, Sandor turned towards Bronn who was in the back of the room. With a knowing look and a nod of the head, Bronn understood immediately and paced towards Sansa.

"Come on, love," Bronn gently implored as he extended a hand to her.

Sansa shifted her stare from Bronn's hand to Sandor, her brow furrowed in confusion and worry. Once more, her eyes seemed to plead with him. She was scared. He could see it in the way her lips trembled and how the pallor of her skin seemed to lighten white as a sheet. He wanted nothing more than to get her out of here, to take her away himself, but he needed to deal with Emilio first. She was just as safe with Bronn as she was with him. He trusted Bronn with his life and therefore he trusted Bronn with her. Yet he couldn't very well tell her that right now. Instead, he reached out and took one of her tiny hands in both of his.

"It's okay, Little Bird."

With a soft nod of her head and a lingering stare, Sansa lifted herself from her seat and followed Bronn out of the room.

* * *

Sighing as she followed Bronn from the room, Sansa felt her stomach knotting with anxiety and an annoying pressure on her bladder. Despite her misgivings when it came to Emilio, Sansa had been reluctant to leave Sandor, a feeling which caught her off guard and seemed to have manifested without her consent. It was the Hound, the same man who a few days before committed mass murder at Nestor Royce's party. So why exactly had she been hesitant to leave his side? The question confused Sansa and left her head was spinning. She didn't feel well; her stomach was cramping and she felt as though she might be sick.

"I need to go to the bathroom," Sansa confessed timidly as she turned towards Bronn. Unfazed, the man motioned his head towards the back of the room and flashed a distracted smile.

"It's in the back," Bronn offered while his eyes surveyed the room and his ears seemed to be yearning to hear Sandor's conversation with Emilio.

Sansa worked her way across the open area and towards the bathroom situated on the other side of the card room. She had had to pee the entire time. Remembering how she had sucked down almost half a container of orange juice this morning, Sansa cursed her stupidity at not going to the bathroom before she left. She hadn't spoken up as Mirabelle led her past a powder room on the way towards the parlor and now Sansa was internally reprimanding herself for it. She had made Sandor wait for eight minutes and he had been angry about it. Two more minutes of waiting on his part couldn't have made him any angrier.

During their senior year, Sansa had taken an English class with Podrick and Myranda. The final project was to write a research paper on a topic of their choosing and do a presentation to the class on that topic. Podrick had done his paper on Tycho Brahe, a Danish astronomer who died after complications with his bladder. During his presentation in class, Podrick had triumphantly described a dinner party that Brahe had attended and how the man had refused to excuse himself to go to the bathroom because it would have been considered poor etiquette. Instead, he held his pee like a fool and later died because of it.

The memory of Podrick's presentation had played in her mind while she sat next to Sandor, listening as he negotiated with Emilio Ventimiglia, a greased up sleaze ball who looked suspiciously like the guy who sang that song "Rico Suave." Their conversation had made her nervous; threats veiled with egotistical tit-for-tat but underneath it all she had sensed the danger. When Sandor had told her she was going to attend him on some business, Sansa's mind had immediately jumped to the worst case scenario. She hadn't known exactly what to expect, but she did expect it to not go well for her. Perhaps he meant to have her killed or raped or both. Instead, Sansa perched next to Sandor, half listening as she shifted uncomfortably in her seat with a bladder full of urine and a head full of thoughts about Tycho Brahe's unfortunate fate. If anything it had offered her mind a distraction. For that she was grateful.

As she stepped into the bathroom and hurried into a stall, Sansa clutched her stomach as a sharp pain reverberated through her middle. Lifting her eyes to the ceiling, Sansa prayed to the God of Glitter that made up the sequenced tiles above her head.  _Not my period. Please. Of all times, not now._

After releasing her bladder for what she swore was something close to 45 seconds straight, Sansa sighed out her relief and not just because her bladder was now blessedly empty. Her monthly reminder of womanhood was staved off for another day at least and now she was spared the awkward inquiries with Bronn or Sandor or some other unsuspecting male as to where she could find a tampon.

Stepping from the stall and towards the sink, Sansa laughed internally at the thought of trying to ask some mobster for a feminine hygiene product. They may fancy themselves bad asses, but if anything scared a man senseless, it was the mysteries of womanhood.

Lifting her gaze to the mirror, Sansa admired Mirabelle's application of her make up as she washed her hands. The woman had a true talent and could probably pursue a career as a cosmetologist. That is, if she wanted a career. Somehow Sansa sensed Mirabelle was content in her brother's world. From the reflection in the mirror, Sansa could see a stall door open behind her. Startled, she hadn't known anyone else was in the bathroom. Her startle turned to horror as the face that hung in the mirror was not that of a woman, but a man. And it was a face she recognized immediately. It was the security guard who had been posted at the gate of the Royce's party; the one that had scrutinized Sansa and her mother before letting them through, the one that had come after Sansa and Podrick with an assault rifle, the one that Podrick had backed over with his car.

Spinning around, Sansa frantically began inching her way towards the bathroom door. The man's face was bruised and she noticed he walked with a slight limp. Apparently, Podrick had succeeded in injuring the man, but he was still very much alive and filling the tiny bathroom with his seething fury. Backing away from him, Sansa spouted out the only thing that came to mind, the only thing she could think of to potentially stave him off as he paced towards her.

"Stay away from me. I'll tell the Hound you were here and then you'll have to deal with him."

With his face contorting in disgust, the man spat to the ground at Sansa's feet as his lips curled into a devilish smile.

"You think I work for the fucking Hound? I don't answer to him. Never have and never will."

It wasn't possible. She  _knew_ who he was. The security guard's face had haunted her nightmares for the past two nights. It was him. She had seen him and he had seen her. If he didn't work for Sandor, then she had no idea why he was here and why he was pulling a gun from underneath his jacket.

Sansa made a frantic dash for the door and had almost pushed her way through when the man swung one arm tight around her neck and brought the other hand up to her mouth.

"If you scream, I'll blow your brains right out of that pretty head of yours. If you fight me, you'll suffer the same fate."

The man tightened his grip on her as she squirmed desperately in his grasp, trying feebly to wiggle her way out of his arms. It was no use as he dragged her from the bathroom with the barrel of his gun pressed against the side of her temple. Sansa squeezed her eyes shut as tears began to form at a furious rate. She wanted to scream, but all that came out were muffled moans as the man pushed his hand harder against her mouth.

And then as if she were reliving her nightmares, Sansa heard the now familiar popping sound, the sound she had mistakenly taken for fireworks the night of the Royce's party. It was coming from the main area of the card room and was accompanied by the splintering sound of furniture being tossed around and glass shattering against the floor.

Sansa's heart pounded hard in her chest as the security guard began pulling her down a hallway towards a door to the outside that had been propped open. From the glaring sunlight that was bleeding into the darkened hallway, Sansa could see a black SUV parked outside with another familiar face waiting next to it. He was yet another security guard from the Royce party, the man who had opened fire in the foyer just moments before Sansa had tried to call out to him for help.

Suddenly infused with a veracious resolve, Sansa jerked hard against the man's arms and felt as his grip loosened at the force. Once more, Sansa flung the weight of her body against the man's hold on her and finally broke through. Running with everything she had, Sansa began working her way back down the hallway, but the security guard was faster than her and beyond that he was stronger. Lunging towards her, the man flew through the air and knocked Sansa over as the force of his body met hers. She hadn't felt herself fall to the floor, but she did feel as the man threw his body on top of her, pressing her against the ground with his weight which was squeezing the breath from her lungs. Desperately Sansa gasped for air as the man pulled his weight off of her and pulled his arm back before striking her across the face. When the force of his hand met her right cheek, Sansa's vision began to blur to black.  _Not again. No, no, no. Not again._ She wasn't going to relive the nightmare of passing out and waking up in the backseat of a car. Furiously, Sansa fought for her consciousness and this time she won. Flipping over from her back to her stomach, Sansa tried to crawl away but felt the man's grimy fingers wrap around her bare calves. A scream escaped her lungs as he began pulling her towards him.

The dim light from the card room was blotted out as Sansa looked up to find the imposing silhouette of a man coming towards her. With a pistol from his gun holster already in his right hand, Sandor aimed at the security guard and fired two rounds. Sansa squeezed her eyes shut at the noise and felt the warmth of blood beginning to saturate her back. She had started to think she had been shot, but as she opened her eyes and saw the lifeless form of the security guard next to her, Sansa knew the blood soaking through her dress wasn't her own.

Sansa heard two more shots ring out above her as Sandor pointed his gun down the corridor behind her. Petrified, Sansa shifted her tear-filled eyes over her shoulder towards the end of the corridor. The man that had been waiting by the SUV was coming towards them, wielding a gun of his own and firing shots back at Sandor. Instinctively, Sansa covered her head and tried curling herself into a tight ball. From all around, she heard shots whizzing by; some of them splintering into the wall and others ending up god-knows-where. After what felt like an eternity, Sansa heard one final shot followed by the thud of a body hitting the ground. A moment later Sansa felt two hands wrap around her wrists followed by a tug as her hands were being pulled away from her head. She didn't want to open her eyes. She didn't want to know who it was. If it wasn't Sandor, then that meant it was the other man, the one that was waiting to take her away to some horrible place.

"You're alright now, Little Bird."

If someone would have told her yesterday that her heart would skip a beat at the Hound's- no,  _Sandor's_ \- voice, Sansa would have told them that they were crazy. But with a low rasp and a 'Little Bird' Sansa felt tears of relief spilling over her cheeks as she opened her eyes.

Staring down at her was Sandor with blood dripping down his burned cheek. He had been injured yet seemed to be unfazed by it as he scooped her up and pulled her into his arms. With one arm under her legs and the other wrapped tightly behind her back, Sandor carried Sansa down the corridor and out the back door.

As they emerged into the sunlight, Sansa saw as Sandor's men piled hurriedly into cars, their faces glazed over with utter bewilderment. The men's attention was roused as Bronn hurried towards them, carrying a body in his arms as tears hung in his eyes. Setting Sansa down, Sandor strode towards Bronn in quickened paces.

Sansa knew it was him. Something in her gut told her and she didn't want to look, but she did. As she lifted her eyes, Sansa saw his limp form cradled in Bronn's arms, the front of his white apron saturated and sticky with blood. Alonzo's eyes fluttered open and closed as he stared towards the sun and muttered something in Italian on labored breaths.

"He tried to fight. The stubborn bastard tried to fight." Bronn choked back the tears as he ran towards a waiting car and placed Alonzo gently in the backseat.

Suddenly it was as though the world fell silent and all eyes lifted to Sandor, their leader, waiting for him to give a command, to offer some sort of guidance. Without hesitation, Sandor settled into his role as he authoritatively administered his commands.

"Drive him to the nearest hospital," Sandor called out to Bronn before turning to another one of his men. "Go-Go, take six men and go with Bronn. The rest of you follow me back. Marco, call Thomas, the Old Man, Mirabelle, whoever you can get a hold of. Tell them they need to lock it down."

Like a well-oiled machine, each man did as he was bid without argument and with a solemn sort of resolve. In a few hurried paces, Sandor made his way towards Sansa and helped her into the back seat of one of the sedans before sliding in behind her.

As the driver of the sedan peeled out of the parking lot and onto the road, Sandor frantically took Sansa by the arm and swiveled her so that her back was facing him. With a tentative touch, Sandor ran his fingers over the blood stains on the back of her dress.

"Where are you bleeding from?" His voice was heavy with concern, a dark growl from his lips as he scrutinized her form with eyes eager to find some source of the blood.

Shifting in the seat so that she was now facing him, Sansa turned her head over her shoulder and let out a tiny gasp as she saw just how much blood had been soaked up by back of her dress. Running her fingers over her lower back and pressing slightly, Sansa felt for an injury, any howling of pain as her fingertips roved over the areas that were wet with blood. Lifting her eyes to Sandor's anxious stare, Sansa shook her head.

"I'm fine. I think I'm fine. It's not my blood."

"Are you sure?," Sandor pressed incredulously as he grasped her forearms in his large hands and settled his stormy eyes onto her.

"I'm sure. It's fine. I'm fine," Sansa reassured him as she felt the car shift as the driver turned onto the highway at a speeding pace. From the rear window, Sansa could see two other sedans following behind them, both matching their speeds as they fled from the city and back towards the desert highway.

Sansa's attention was stirred as she felt Sandor bring one hand up to cup her chin. Gently, he pulled her gaze back towards him and scrutinized what must have been an emerging bruise or lesion on her face where the man had struck her. Sansa watched as something between rage and remorse pooled in his eyes while the corner of his mouth began to twitch. Unexpectedly, Sandor adjusted both hands until he was cupping her cheeks. As he rested his forehead against hers, Sansa shifted her eyes downwards as he held her there and saw as his chest heaved with each of his breaths. On each exhale, Sansa could hear him mumbling something yet could scarcely make out the words. Steadying herself to listen, Sansa could barely, just  _barely_ , hear as Sandor breathed out a mantra of regret.  _"I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."_

She imagined he hadn't meant for her to hear them yet she had seemed to puzzle them out anyway. Letting go of her, Sandor settled back in his seat with his arms crossed tightly about his chest. The rest of the drive seemed to fly by as Sansa sat in a daze, thinking of everything and nothing at all. Funny how time works, she thought to herself. It can crawl by, seconds feeling like eternity, or it can pass you by before you even realize it, the minutes burning away like wildfire. Racing north on Highway 95, Sansa felt as though they were speeding against time, flying towards an uncertainty that awaited them. She sensed that Sandor's world had been rocked off kilter and that he knew more was coming, a steady push that would turn his existence upside down.  _This is only the beginning._  Shifting her stare towards him, he was adrift in his own thoughts, his mind a million or more miles away.

Before she knew it, they were driving up the front circle of the Mediterranean villa and squealing to a halt. Sansa's heart beat began to quicken and she felt her breath catch in her throat as Sandor helped her from the car. He had instructed Marco to get a hold of someone,  _anyone,_  who had stayed behind. Now as they hurried towards the front door, Sansa's stomach flipped at the thought that something could have happened here too, that perhaps Mirabelle or the old man who had treated Sansa kindly the night before might be hurt.

Stepping through the front door, Sansa's mind was immediately set at ease as Mirabelle rushed towards them, tears streaming from her eyes and her lips quivering from crying. Mirabelle stopped dead in her tracks as she approached Sansa and saw the dried blood that was caking on her arms and across the back of the dress.

"Oh my god. Oh, Sansa. What happened?," Mirabelle cried out as she gently placed her trembling hands on either side of Sansa's head. Wordlessly, Sansa let her mouth hang open before closing it again. She didn't know what to tell Mirabelle. She herself had no idea what happened. She was just as clueless as Mirabelle. Before Sansa could respond, the woman let her hands fall to her side as she turned towards Sandor.

"Sandor! What happened?" Her voice cracked with grief and Sansa could see from her blood shot eyes to the streaming of mascara down her cheeks that Mirabelle had been crying for quite some time before they arrived. Someone had told her what happened, but left her with an incomplete picture. Desperately, Mirabelle turned towards her brother for the answers she so badly needed in this moment.

"I don't know. It wasn't Emilio or his men. Alonzo. Alonzo tried to fight. Bronn took him to the hospital." Still caught in a daze, Sandor let his eyes fall to the floor and his brow furrowed as he seemingly tried to make sense of it all in his head.

"It's bad, isn't it?," Mirabelle urged as she frantically grasped Sandor by both of his forearms and settled an insistent stare on him. Wordlessly, Sandor nodded his head as his lifted his eyes to his sister.

"It was him wasn't it? It was that son of a bitch?" Mirabelle's voice was scarcely above a whisper as her eyes widened with fear and disbelief, as if she already knew the answer to her question, but wanted Sandor to tell her otherwise and to let her stand corrected. Once more Sandor wordlessly nodded his head. At that, Mirabelle brought a trembling hand up to her mouth to stifle a gasp before she erupted into soft sobs.

Without hesitation, Sandor pulled his sister into his arms and planted a soft kiss on top of her head.

"It's fine. Mirabelle, it's going to be okay. I didn't see him there," Sandor reassured her as he held her in a tight embrace until her crying had quieted. Suddenly, Mirabelle pulled away from him and turned towards Sansa.

With a look of concern heavy across her face, Mirabelle took Sansa's hands into her own and offered a gentle squeeze.

"Sansa. Baby girl, are you okay?," she asked through sniffles as she brushed the hair away from Sansa's face and scrutinized the bruise that was forming on her cheek.

"I'll be okay," Sansa offered with a tremulous exhaling of breath and a soft smile. For many moments, Mirabelle stood quietly contemplating Sansa, letting her eyes work over the blood stains and the fresh scrapes settled amongst healing cuts across Sansa's skin.

Rousing her from her reverie, Sandor placed a hand on Mirabelle's shoulder and settled his stare on her until she looked up at him.

"I'm going to find out how Alonzo is doing. See to the Little Bird."

With that, Sandor turned towards Sansa and gently placed a hand on her forearm.

"You're alright now," he assured softly before letting his hand once more fall to his side. "I'll be back in a little while."

For the third time in less than 24 hours, Sansa found herself standing beneath the shower head in Mirabelle's claw foot bathtub. Quietly and with a calm that both surprised and disturbed her, Sansa watched as the blood washed from her body and swirled down the drain. It reminded her of her own fate, which seemed to be spiraling in on itself. She thought she understood everything clearly, had it all sorted out into black and white. Now nothing made sense and all she saw were shades of grey, black bleeding into white and white succumbing to black.

After toweling herself off and changing into a pair of shorts and one of Mirabelle's tank tops, Sansa emerged in the upstairs hallway. The house was quiet and astir with a sort of peacefulness that Sansa eagerly soaked up. The setting sun was spilling through the windows that made up the front of the house. Making her way down the stairs in slow steps, Sansa didn't know where her feet where taking her and she found she didn't much care. Her mind played back the events of the past two days, trying desperately to piece everything together. She had been certain that the security guard was one of Sandor's men just as she had been certain that Sandor had meant to have Leon murder Podrick. She had been wrong on both accounts it seemed and couldn't help but feel that perhaps she was wrong about so much more. It was as if she had all the pieces of a puzzle in front of her and had forced them together the wrong way resulting in an inaccurate picture of her situation. Now she was at a loss. Nothing made sense. Nothing at all.

Lost in her thoughts, Sansa found that she had roamed into the hall way that led to the downstairs lounge. Once more, her eyes were drawn to the pictures that hung on the wall and the faces that smiled down at her, warm and proud.

"Do you like old photos?"

Startled out of her daydreaming, Sansa twirled around to find the old man standing behind her, the man who had shown her kindness and pulled her into the alcove to spare her the horror of witnessing Leon's demise. As if he had floated down the hallway, she hadn't heard him come up behind her. His eyes considered her with both genuine sympathy and gentle compassion.

"Oh…I…I don't really know. I was just looking." Sansa let her eyes flitter to the floor as she tucked a damp tress of hair behind her ear.

Chuckling softly, the old man pulled his cigar from his mouth and settled it between his index and middle finger before setting a dreamy gaze on one of the photos.

"It's like walking back through time. At least that's how I feel when I look at them."

The old man allowed his eyes to turn away from the photo as he smiled warmly at Sansa before pointing towards a picture hung to the right of her.

"That woman there is my mother. Believe it or not, I was once a small child. The baby she's holding in her arms is me."

The woman in the photograph was perched on the front steps of a small, but quaint house and cradled a baby in her arms. With brunette pin curls softly framing the delicate features of her smiling face, the woman was a vision of 1940's glamour and beauty; thinned and elongated eyebrows, a slender, slightly upturned nose, and delicately rouged lips.

"She's beautiful," Sansa said, mesmerized as she pondered the woman in the picture.

"Yes. She really was, wasn't she? Everyone said she looked like Gene Tierney. Oh, how she loved that!"

Exhaling a soft laugh, Sansa turned her attention to the photo hung next to the one of the old man's mother. A man stood proudly in uniform, a cigarette resting between his lips as he set an intense gaze towards the camera.

"And that's your father?," Sansa guessed although she really wasn't sure. It could have been anyone really, but the man in the photograph seemed to bear a faint resemblance to the old man.

With a wide grin and a nostalgic reverie filling his eyes, the old man nodded his head as he took a pull on his cigar.

"Yes, the man mean-mugging the camera would be my father," the old man responded as he smiled softly to himself as if silently traipsing through forgotten memories. "He was something else. A good man, but a real son of a bitch sometimes. I don't know why my mother put up with him, but she did and he loved her because of it."

Turning towards his left and working back down the hallway, the old man waved Sansa over to a picture that hung towards the end of the hall.

"The James Dean wanna-be there was me when I was 10. I thought I was a real tough guy." The old man shook his head as he chuckled, his eyes glistening as he looked at the reflection of himself some 55 years in the past.

"That there is a 1965 Mustang Fastback Shelby. My first car and the love of my life back then," the old man mused as he pointed to yet another picture. Sansa let out a tiny giggle as she spied the old man, probably 20 years old, leaning up against the car with his arms crossed about his chest and a boyish smile plastered across his youthful face.

"That's when I went into the service. I was an infantry man during Vietnam. The man to my left died while we were over there. The man to my right. He saved my life. A bomb went off and the force of it knocked me out cold. When I came to, he was carrying me through the brush towards safety."

Sansa scrutinized the picture and felt a pang of sorrow as she studied the face of the man who had lost his life in the war. Furrowing her brow, Sansa settled her attention on the man in the photo who had saved the old man's life. He somehow looked familiar, but she couldn't quite place the resemblance. Before she could inquire, the old man led her to two pictures hung at the end of the hall, one on each side.

"And here at the end is where it all began. These are my grandparents. My father's parents were both Sicilian. They shuffled through Ellis Island just like all the rest. My mother's father was from Florence and my mother's mother was from Berlin. They met at the University."

The photos had been faded with time, but Sansa could still make out the hopefulness gleaming in the eyes of the old man's grandparents, all four of them. The love, the joy, the honesty all stared back at Sansa.

Looping his arm in hers, the old man led Sansa from the hallway with slow, ambling steps until they reached the great room. Through the floor to ceiling windows that made up the far side of the room, Sansa could see the sun retreating to the far horizon as it bled out in brilliant hues of pink and orange.

"After Pearl Harbor, my father joined up with the Army, the 82nd airborne. He knew sooner or later the Americans would get pulled into war. He didn't want to sit around waiting for his draft letter to come in the mail. If he was going to war, he was going on his own terms. That was just the kind of man he was.

He was dropped at Utah Beach during the Normandy invasion. Clearly, he lived to tell about it. He later told me he damn near pissed his pants as he parachuted out of a C-47 and floated to the beach below knowing damn well the Germans were waiting for him. When Victory Day came, my father was still overseas. You see, not everyone got to come home that day and kiss their wives and hug their children. Some men were still at war. My father was one of them."

Entranced, Sansa followed the old man to a balcony that extended off of the great room. The air outside was warm and fragrant with the sweet smells of lavender. Leaning his elbows on the balcony railing, the old man began again as his eyes settled on the sunset displayed beautifully before them.

"When he did come back home, we moved to a pre-dominantly Italian neighborhood outside of San Francisco. War is a funny thing though. It breeds ignorance and hatred. The anti-Italian, anti-German, and anti-Japanese dissent back at home was worse than what he had endured overseas, he once told me. He was just as American as everyone else. He fought just as hard, watched his brothers of war get shot down next to him and lose their lives, no different than the rest of them.

So when he came back home to all that hatred, it really fucked with him for a long time. Our neighborhood was close knit, almost all of the residents tracing their descent back to Italy. Things started to get really seedy; shops and restaurants in the neighborhood were being targeted and attacked. It started small. Windows being smashed in, restaurants being torn up, stores being looted, that sort of thing. Then people started getting hurt. Men, women, kids. It didn't matter. They were being singled out and attacked. The police didn't do a damn thing about it and instead just turned a blind eye to what was going on.

My father had had enough. He rallied the men of the neighborhood to stand up and do something about it. Most of the men answered his call and so he started racketeering, offering protection to businesses in exchange for a cut of their profits. For families that were especially hard hit by the violence, my father offered personal protection and retaliation for money. When things in the neighborhood calmed down, he started opening illegal gambling rackets. That led to loan sharking, which led to extortion. Before he knew it, he had an organized crime syndicate on his hands."

"And your mother, she was okay with all of this?," Sansa interjected, remembering the delicacy that seemed to encase the woman she had seen in the picture. She wondered where a woman like that, seemingly so gentle, soft, and kind, fit into the world of organized crime.

"We were a family, all of us. The men who were involved with him might as well have been blood to my father, to all of our family. They were like brothers, their wives like sisters, their children like his own children. There was a community there, an understanding that no matter what shit life threw at them, they had each other. We all had each other.

I was brought up in the life and I knew no better. It was family to me. I thought everyone had a family like mine. As I got older, I knew I'd continue it on and try to make my father proud. His rules were simple. We didn't get involved with drugs because that was filthy, dirty business. We treated our women with the utmost respect. We were to be stand-up family men; respectable and brave, leaders in our community.

I took over as the boss in 1971. I was 25 at the time and my father's health was failing him. My mother had died a few years earlier and I think he never fully recovered from that. He eventually passed from a heart attack in 1976. From that point on, I took over where he left off."

With a piece of the puzzle falling into place, Sansa gasped and turned a wide eyed stare towards the old man.

"So wait. You…you're…Moriarti?," she inquired as she set a bewildered gaze on the old man's face.

With a knowing smile and a nod of his head, the old man dipped slightly in a playful bow to Sansa.

"Alberto Moriarti."

Shaking her head, Sansa struggled to piece together the rest of it. She had hoped everything would fall into place like a domino effect, but somehow things still weren't adding up.

"But if you're Moriarti and your father started this whole organization, why is the Hou-" stopping herself, Sansa took a deep breath before starting again. "Why is Sandor the head of the Moriarti mafia?"

"Sandor's father was a battle buddy of mine. The man who saved my life, that was Sandor's father. We met during our time in Vietnam and kept in touch here and there once we got back state side. We lost touch for awhile, about 10 or 12 years; he had his life and I had mine.

When I found out his wife had passed away, I reached out to him and we reconnected. Every now and then we'd grab a couple of beers at a local pub and catch up. He talked a lot about Sandor and Mirabelle; what they were doing at school, what their interests were, what sort of trouble they had been getting into. It was never anything major, but I could always tell something bothered him. I knew he had an older son, Gregor. And I knew he and his wife had had a lot of problems with Gregor. Not the typical rebellious teenager sorts of problems that eventually work themselves out. No, these were some major problems. He me told about Sandor's scars, how Gregor had beaten up on Mirabelle and then shoved Sandor's face into a pile of burning leaves. Sandor's father was convinced that Gregor would do him in one day. He always said it jokingly, but I knew he meant it and was afraid."

Alberto let his voice fall off and shook his head in disgust before starting again, turning his gaze towards Sansa.

"Can you imagine that? Being afraid of your own son? A couple years passed and we stayed in touch. Then one day I heard that he had been found beaten to death in his living room and I knew immediately that it was Gregor who had done it. My wife was the one who had told me and she was worried sick for Sandor and Mirabelle. Our hearts went out to those poor kids. They were essentially orphans; no mother, no father, and a psychopath for a brother.

I drove to their house and tried looking for them, but they were gone. My wife insisted we keep looking. We drove damn near all over town trying to find those kids. Then they turned up at a police station. My wife and I fought to take them in, told the police we would happily raise them up. But I was a mob boss and the police knew that. They weren't about to hand two orphaned kids over to me.

I kept up with them anyway and it didn't take long for Sandor to leave his foster home to come and stay with me. Mirabelle was a different story. She stayed behind, her foster 'father' was some fucking politician, a god damn pedophile. We eventually got her out of there though. And the prick is buried somewhere in the desert.

With Sandor and Mirabelle, my wife and I treated them as if they were our own. She had a miscarriage early in our marriage and we were never able to have children. Sandor and Mirabelle became our children, although they were almost grown by the time they came to us. We loved them all the same.

By the time Sandor was twenty, I knew I was getting older and needed to hang it up. I urged him to go to college, make a straight living. But I told him that if he wanted my legacy, he could have it; told him that it wouldn't be easy for him, but I would hang back, grow old, and counsel him the best I could. He chose this life, chose what my father had built for me and what I suppose I built for him. Sometimes I think he regrets it. I think he wishes he could just leave it behind him."

"So why does he stay then?," Sansa quietly inquired as she felt some sense of internal relief as if the cloud of confusion was slowly dissipating.

Alberto turned to Sansa and searched her face with hesitant eyes. Sansa had seen this expression before, first with Mirabelle, then Sandor, and now Alberto. It was as if he wanted to tell her something, to reveal some truth, but stopped the honesty just before it rolled off of his tongue.

"Your father is the district attorney. I imagine he has mentioned the Severelli-Moriarti alliance that is now the Severelli-Moriarti feud."

Intrigued, Sansa wordlessly nodded her head in response.

"Severelli was a temperamental man, a war veteran like my father. He was never the same after the war though, something went wrong in his head. He was violent, ruthless, and vicious. My father reached a shaky alliance with him that I continued on. If you want monsters, Sansa, the men of the Severelli organization are about as close as you're going to get.

And that is why Gregor Clegane, Sandor Clegane's brother, aligned himself with the Severelli mafia. Because Gregor is truly a monster. Right now, the Severelli-Moriarti war is nothing more than the blood feud of the Clegane brothers. It ends when one of them is dead.

Sandor stays because he wants to make his brother pay and answer for all he has done; for his scars, for the abuse of his sister and his mother, and for his father's death."

Sansa was stunned and felt as her hands began to tremble. She didn't know what to say and beyond that she imagined even if she wanted to say something, she probably couldn't even find the words to form a coherent sentence. Shocked into silence, Sansa lifted her eyes to Alberto as he turned towards her and took her hands into his.

"I know you are scared, Sansa. You don't know why you're here or when you get to go home. I can't give you those answers. What I can tell you is this. Sometimes things aren't always what they seem. We think we understand something only to find we were wrong. Very, very  _wrong_. You'll know everything soon. All I ask is that you just try to keep an open mind."

Alberto gave a gentle squeeze on Sansa's hands before releasing them and retreating away from the balcony. His words had hit her like a tidal wave and Sansa was left reeling as she sorted through all of her thoughts. It was as if the flood gates in her mind had finally opened and all the ' _what if's_ ' were suddenly washed away. She had awoken this morning hating the Hound. Sansa was beginning to think she had been wrong. Very, very wrong.

* * *

Sandor stared at the pieces of his pistol laid out on his desk. He had field stripped it, something the Old Man had taught him how to do.  _'It's important you learn how to take care of your own weapons. In our business, that can mean the difference between life and death.'_ They were simple principles to live by. All of Alberto's philosophies seemed so commonsensical yet the man had a way of making them sound profound, as if he was unveiling some well kept secret of the universe.

Applying his cleaning solvent to the bore brush, Sandor worked the cleaning rod down the barrel of his pistol. In slow, methodical motions he cleaned away the layer of grime that clung to the metal. With deft hands, Sandor worked away at his gun, letting the thoughts flee from his mind as soon as they entered. He needed this; a mindless task to occupy his hands and distract him from his contemplations.

He would have plenty of time to mull over what had happened today. Sandor knew damn well that he would toss and turn the night away replaying the events, trying to puzzle out how things had gotten so fucking out of hand. He imagined it was a bunch of little things, a bunch of small details he had somehow managed to overlook. That's always how these things worked. One mistake leads to another and another still until before you know it your world is crumbling around you.

From the corner of his eye, Sandor saw the door of his office open and the light from the hall filter into the room. Lifting his gaze to the door as he reapplied solvent to the bore brush, Sandor saw Mirabelle slowly enter the room and shut the door quietly behind her. With worry straining her face, Sandor's sister crossed her arms about her chest and tentatively lowered herself into the seat on the other side of his desk.

"What the hell happened today?" As Mirabelle's voice met his ears in a tremulous whisper, Sandor knew she was scared. He felt helpless. He had seen his sister's fear of Gregor resurface and the strong, vibrant woman Mirabelle had grown into suddenly retreated and gave way to the petrified little girl seeking Sandor's protection.

"I don't know," Sandor offered. It was honest. He had been banging his head against a proverbial wall trying to figure it out himself, but had only been able to come up with one thing and he doubted Mirabelle would want to hear what that was. But he was always honest with his sister; he had made a point of it. He did her no favors by sugar coating the truth. "It was his men. Gregor sent a handful of them, probably to get our attention."

Pursing her lips and silently nodding her head, Mirabelle let her eyes fall to her hands which where folded in her lap.

"Alonzo didn't make it, did he?," she asked although something in her voice suggested she already knew the answer.

"No. No, he didn't," Sandor replied as he plunged the bore brush once more into the barrel of his gun.

In the back seat of a car and cradled in Bronn's arms, the man had died on the way to the hospital. Bronn had been close to Alonzo and often referred to the man as the only father he ever really had. The loss would affect all of them, but Sandor knew without a doubt Bronn would take it the hardest.

With her head down turned and her hands wringing nervously in her lap, Mirabelle had fallen silent. Sandor was at a loss for what to tell her, for what to do for her. He didn't know what she needed in this moment. After sitting in silence for what felt like an eternity, Mirabelle abruptly pushed herself from the chair and paced in front of his desk, chewing her fingernail before turning towards him.

"What are you doing, Sandor?" Her voice was pleading as she came to a stop and placed her hands on his desk, leaning her weight against it and steadying her frantic stare on him.

"What does it look like I'm doing, Mirabelle?," Sandor groaned in response as his hands continued to work with the barrel of his gun.

"I don't care about your fucking guns. You know damn well that's not what I'm talking about," Mirabelle wailed out in response as she continued her nervous pacing.

"Then please do me a favor and tell me what the hell you  _are_ talking about," Sandor shot back. "I'm not in the mood for this shit right now." In truth he wasn't. He knew what she wanted to talk about and he wasn't sure he was ready to talk about it. He had made a mistake-a fucking terrible mistake- by bringing Sansa with him to Las Vegas. She could have been killed. Or worse, she could have been carted off by Gregor's men. He didn't want to think about it which meant he certainly didn't want to talk about it.

"Sansa. What are you doing with the poor girl?," Mirabelle affirmed as she pulled the barrel and bore brush from Sandor's hands and pushed them gently to the side of the desk.

Sandor obliged and settled back in his seat, resting one elbow on the arm rest of his chair and rubbing his forehead with the other hand.

"Sandor she thinks you murdered her mother, her friends, all those poor people at that party. She thinks it was  _you_  who did that. And now you bring her here, take her on a little adventure to Las Vegas that damn near got her killed."

And there it was. The truth he had been avoiding. But now that it was placed in front of him, Sandor couldn't understand why he hadn't told Sansa yet, why he had been holding onto the truth. He had told himself it was too complicated, it would involve Sansa knowing too much.

"I thought that the less she knows, the better. That's why I haven't told her." Sandor spoke truly.  _'The truth will set you free_ ,' the Old Man had told him last night as they argued over it. Sandor knew Alberto was right. Alberto was always right, a fountain that spouted the fucking truth.

"The less she knows the better? Better for you that is. Not for her."

Sandor snapped his stare up at Mirabelle's words. He wanted to be angry with her. He wanted to tell her to get the hell out and leave him be. But he couldn't because she was right and she knew she was right. Mirabelle was the only person who saw right through to his core; through all the anger and violence and rage and bullshit, Mirabelle knew him and knew what motivated him. A sister's intuition she had called it.

There was no use trying to pretend with Mirabelle. Relenting, Sandor sighed deeply and rubbed his hands over his face as he let his head lean into the back of his chair.

"I thought that she'd be safe with me today. I didn't want to leave her behind here. I was afraid something would happen and I wouldn't be here. So I brought her with me to meet with Emilio. If I had known Gregor was going to send his men, I obviously wouldn't have fucking gone."

Sandor broke off in a sudden silence after facing what he had been avoiding all afternoon and evening since coming back from Vegas. Suddenly, he felt the frustration build within him and released it as he pounded a fist hard against his desk, sending smaller pieces of his gun to go rattling over the edge and to the floor.

"Goddamnit Mirabelle, I thought I was doing the right thing," his voice bellowed out.

Mirabelle didn't flinch and she didn't cower in fear. Instead, she calmly picked herself up to her feet and deliberately paced towards Sandor. Crouched in front of him, Mirabelle placed her hands gently on his knees and lifted her stare intently to him.

"You want to do the right thing, Sandor? Then tell her the truth. Tell her everything, from beginning to end. You owe her that at the very least. The girl is scared to death. She doesn't know what the hell is going on or who those men were that tried to take her today.  _Tell_ her."

He did owe it to Sansa, that much was true. Somewhere deep within him, in a place he had tucked away and buried with rage, Sandor had begun to reel at the thought that Sansa saw him as a monster. He had sworn up and down that he could care fucking less and that it made no difference to him, but it did, truly it did. Ready or not, he needed to tell her; for her sake  _and_  for his.

Placing his hands on top of Mirabelle's, Sandor nodded his head and turned his gaze down towards his baby sister who was staring up at him with all the adoration and trust she always seemed to regard him with.

"You're right. She needs to know why she's here and why she can't go home right now. I'll lay it all out for her, but not tonight. Tonight we all need some time."

Sandor watched as Mirabelle's face lit up into a smile and the worry seemed to retreat from her eyes. Lifting herself to her feet, Mirabelle wrapped her arms around Sandor's neck as she pulled him into an embrace.

"I love you, Sandy," she whispered before releasing her arms from his neck and slowly retreated towards the door of his office.

Turning away from her and picking up the barrel of his gun, Sandor sighed out an exhale of breath with a half-smile tugging on his lips.

"Yeah. I guess I fucking love you too."


	5. Chapter 5

  **Gods and Monsters**

Chapter 5

 

* * *

"Judged for their sins and raised from their cold crypts, the dead shall rise up and take the earth as their kingdom once more. With those that pass before us, we are reminded that the only certainty of life is death as it comes for us all. No man, no woman, no child, not the rich, not the poor, not the wise, not the foolish are exempt from its calling."

Sansa shifted in front of the grave of a man she barely knew, but a man who had nonetheless shone a tiny sliver of light into what had become the nightmare of her life. Despite the meager respite from an oak tree overhead, the morning sun was beating hot against her skin. Mirabelle glanced sideways at her, considering Sansa with a knowing a look; a look that seemed to say  _'I know this must be hard for you. And it's hot out here. And the smell…'_

The graveyard in which Alonzo was being put to rest had a distinct, acrid smell.  _Something between nature and death. The intersection of something natural and unnatural._ It was suffocating and through the gasps and sobs of the funeral goers, Sansa knew they smelled it too. It wasn't the trees, nor was it was the tufts of grass that struggled to survive in the desert climate. No, it was something else entirely.

"We are masons of our fate. Stone by stone, we build until our cities of retribution are dashed and we enter into life eternal. All that is gold turns to dust and all that is flesh and bone shall be cast in the light of the Kingdoms of Heaven. Cursed is the man who values the mortal riches over the riches of the immortal soul."

Standing between Sandor and Mirabelle, Sansa allowed her eyes to wander over the crowd of people gathered around Alonzo's funeral plot. Men in black suits with hardened faces that betrayed nothing of their emotions, women gratefully accepting handkerchiefs from said men and delicately dabbing away at tears. And the flowers. Bouquets of flowers- red flowers, yellow flowers, blue flowers, and pink ones, big, small, simple, elaborate- Alonzo's resting place was going to look like a garden. And rightfully so, Sansa thought to herself. He deserved a garden in the desert.

Sansa felt her mind wandering as the priest continued his final words on a voice that bellowed amongst the graves. Situated in the back, Sansa turned her head and let her gaze hover over her right shoulder as she studied the expanse of headstones behind her. The cemetery was old and supposedly haunted by the souls of the bodies laid to rest here. Mirabelle had told her as much. The story had elicited goosebumps to prickle Sansa's skin and her mind to wander with a morbid curiosity.

Statues of angels were dotted throughout the cemetery, many missing heads and chipped away with the relentlessness of time. They looked to Sansa like faceless horsemen of death, there to bring you to the other side on decaying marble wings. Directly behind her, Sansa noticed a small head stone nestled amongst a patch of moss. Squinting to decipher the name, she realized it was the grave of a man, a man who had died at the age of 20 about 75 years ago. A small, mournful poem had been engraved on his headstone and the inscribed letters were filled with lace-like lichen.  _Even our attempt at memorial eventually decays away._ A small bouquet of dried flowers rested at the base of the man's headstone, probably put there many years ago by god-knows-who.  _Dried flowers on an early grave._ Something about it sent a shock of sorrow through Sansa's body until it settled heavily in her heart.

Silently, Sansa said a prayer for the man; the dead man in front of her and the dead man who was…well…underneath her. Startled, Sansa realized she was standing on his grave. With her eyes widening, she stepped forward a few steps, retreating away from Mirabelle and Sandor. Feeling Sandor's watchful eyes on her, Sansa had expected him to reach out and pull her back towards him. He had been rather vigilant over her the past couple of days, discreetly ensuring she was never too far out of his sight. From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw as Sandor's crossed arms unfolded and fell to his side. Settling his gaze on her, he willed her to look at him and Sansa felt herself oblige as she fleetingly let her eyes meet his. He pondered her quizzically and perhaps even apprehensively, as if he were afraid she might flee and he might lose her as she darted between mausoleums. The thought brought a soft smile to creep across her lips, a smile which oddly enough seemed to reassure Sandor. He nodded his head gently and allowed a half smile in return before he steadied his stare straight ahead once more.

It wasn't like she  _was_  going to run off anywhere. It's not like she would get very far with the entirety of his mafia family in attendance at Alonzo's funeral. Besides it was disrespectful to trample on the resting place of the dead.  _'You wake the dead as you walk amongst them.'_ Her grandmother had told her that once. Now that she thought about it, her grandmother Tully had told her a great many things about death.

 _'Death comes in threes, child. Always in threes.'_ Sansa had been thirteen when her grandfather passed away and she still remembered her grandmother's solemn words spoken on a hiss of a whisper. She remembered the sickening smell of carnations filling the tiny church vestibule, the hushed voices strained with grief and the orbs of flickering candle light that kissed the stone walls of the church. She didn't cry as she stood over her grandfather's body tucked thoughtfully in a satin lined casket clutching a black beaded rosary in his hands.  _And his hands._  Overwhelmed with curiosity, Sansa had touched one of them, gently wrapping her delicate fingers around his stiff, lifeless appendages. Horrified, she found that his skin felt waxy and the familiar age spots that dotted his hands were curiously missing, covered over with what looked to be some sort of makeup. He hadn't looked himself, not in the least. It was as though a waxen body double had crawled into the casket and was passing itself off as her grandfather Tully. Pondering whether or not it was truly her grandfather's body laid out before her, Sansa hadn't seen her grandmother fall in by her side until the woman offered her ominous words which harkened the trining of death.

 _And death._  Over the smell of carnations, Sansa had deciphered its scent; that same unnatural scent that was filling the cemetery. Her grandmother had reeked of it. Not two months after her grandfather's funeral, Sansa was yet again clothed in the only black dress she owned at the time and forced to wear a pair of black mary jane shoes that pinched her toes and rubbed on the back of her heels. This time it was her grandmother's body that she stood over, looking on at the skin seemingly taut against the old woman's skeletal frame and stifling a gag at the smell of carnations, a smell she was swiftly beginning to dread.  _Carnations and death._

Six months later, death had come calling for her uncle Brandon. A month prior, Sansa had shuffled through the stacks of magazines and newspapers that littered the coffee table in the Stark household family room. Shoving a stack to the side, a cascade of glossy covered magazines had careened off of the table and to the floor. With a groan, Sansa had bent down to clean up her mess, but had abruptly stopped when she spotted a folded up newspaper peeking out from underneath the latest edition of Time magazine. The headline read ' _Moriarti Underboss Indicted on Racketeering and Extortion, District Attorney Brandon Stark Courts Death.'_

 _'Death comes in threes…'_ Clutching the newspaper with tears accumulating at the corners of her eyes, Sansa had brought it to her father and through gasping sobs told him what her grandmother had whispered to her on a stale breath that reeked of death. Her father had remained silent for many moments, recoiling slightly from the newspaper that had been laid on his desk in front of him. He believed her. She could see it in his eyes which flickered with a strange sort of understanding. Despite this, he had offered what reassurance he could.  _'Sansa, your grandmother Tully was a very superstitious woman. This is the same woman that didn't make a decision without consulting her astrological charts.'_ It had been true. Her grandmother was very much a devout follower of many occult practices, astrology chief among them. Contracts should never be signed during the mercury retrograde and matters of the heart were not to be discussed when the moon traveled through Capricorn, according to her grandmother.

Sansa had been twelve when her grandmother delved headlong into her birth chart and unsympathetically shared what she saw, detail after brutal detail.  _'Your moon resides in the seventh house of marriage, which is ruled by Venus. And do you know what sign has its fall in Venus, child? It's Virgo, your moon sign! Love will come with much difficulty for you, Sansa; much tragedy too. You had best know that now before the boys start coming around and your heart starts breaking and you mope around wondering why on earth love has to be so hard for you. It's that damned seventh house of yours!'_ With identical faces agape with shock, Sansa and her mother had exchanged a wide eyed stare; Sansa's eyes pooling with tears and her mother's with anger.  _'Mother! Sansa will have boys lined up around the corner. So many that Ned won't know what to do with himself. She will have no problems finding love,'_ Catelyn had chided as she protectively squeezed Sansa into an embrace. The boys hadn't even started coming around yet, not then at least, but Sansa always remembered what her grandmother said; when her prom date left her alone and dancing with her father, her junior year of high school when the boy she had been hopelessly in love with turned out to be an insufferable prick, when she didn't seem to operate on the same wavelength as any of the guys her age.  _'That damned seventh house of yours!'_ Damned, indeed.

 _'Oh Catelyn! Easy for you to say!'_ her grandmother had retorted, undeterred and resolved to counsel Sansa on her astrological maladies. _'Your marriage to Ned was blessed by the cosmos from the start. As was my marriage to Hoster. I will follow that man to the grave should he go before me!'_ And he had gone before her and true to her word, Sansa's grandmother followed her grandfather, the absolute love of her grandmother's life, through the great divide to see him on the other side of the veil. And not long after, Sansa yet again garbed herself in black, stuffed her feet into mary janes a half size too small and mourned the passing of her uncle Brandon, the man who courted death and didn't live to tell the tale.

Lost in a daze of her memento mori musings, Sansa had only half noticed that the priest had completed his funeral sermon and was now beckoning the mourners to say their final farewells. One by one, the funerals goers filed by Alonzo's grave; many cried, some lightly touched their fingertips to their lips and then to the casket, a few murmured bittersweet words of  _'see you on the other side'_  followed by a solemn salute. Sansa remained where she was and made no move to step forward, not until she was prompted. After the others had had their final moment, Sandor stepped forward, passing Sansa until he stood in front of Alonzo's casket. Mirabelle fell in next to his side and gently rested her head against his shoulder while gazing blankly at the flower-covered casket.

Folding her hands in front of her, Sansa didn't know what to do. She felt like an intruder, an outsider gawking at someone else's sorrow and loss. She too had experienced her own sorrow, her own loss and yet the others had hardly seemed to notice. Too preoccupied with the aching in their own hearts, they didn't notice her aching heart. Or perhaps they did, but they had mistakenly assumed that she was mourning Alonzo's passing too. After pulling herself away from her brother's side, Mirabelle tentatively paced towards Sansa with fresh tears forming in her eyes.

"Let's give him a moment," Mirabelle whispered while glancing back at her brother and looping her arm in Sansa's.

Sansa gave a mindless nod in reply as Mirabelle led her through the graveyard and back towards the waiting sedan. Turning back, Sansa saw Sandor still standing in front of Alonzo's grave. He looked as though the weight of the world was resting upon his shoulders and he was struggling to keep it all in place. She had seen that look before from her father as he would gaze out the window of his office with a thousand-mile stare. It seemed odd to her that these two men, Sandor Clegane and Ned Stark, were on the opposite sides of the law, constantly working against one another from the shadows, yet shared certain similarities.

As she climbed into the sedan, Sansa welcomed the coolness of the leather seat against her skin and wiped away the beads of sweat that had formed on her brow. She gazed out the window, contemplating the graveyard and daydreaming about its purported ghosts and ghouls that stirred from their eternal slumber by night. Mirabelle was studying her, peering towards her with watchful eyes. Sansa knew because she could feel it. It was something Mirabelle seemed to share with her brother; the ability to bore through people with just a look from their steely grey eyes.

"I told him it would have been better, kinder for you to forgo the funeral," Mirabelle suddenly confessed, breaking the awkward silence that had begun to fill the back seat of the car. "God knows he doesn't fucking listen to me half the time."

Sansa shifted her gaze towards Mirabelle and cocked her head to the side.  _Better and kinder. And dangerous too._ If she knew Sandor, and she surmised she was beginning to, he would have refused for fear that something might happen to her while she was out of his sight.

Mirabelle confirmed as much as she relayed her conversation with her brother; how she had pleaded with him to let Sansa stay behind, how Sansa didn't need to be dragged to a funeral. In the end, Sandor had agreed with Mirabelle, but adamantly refused to leave Sansa behind.

Nodding her head silently, Sansa turned once more to look out the window and saw as Sandor retreated from Alonzo's grave and weaved his way through the graveyard, his hands shoved in his pockets and concern lining his face. As he approached the sedan parked in front of them, Sansa sat up and, unbidden, allowed her eyes to widen in confusion. Mirabelle exhaled a soft giggle as she shifted her stare towards the car in front of them.

"He'll ride with Bronn. Bronn needs him right now," Mirabelle assured with a forlorn smile creasing her rouged lips. Sansa nodded her head in understanding. She had seen Bronn sparingly over the past three days, but each time he had looked worse for the wear, a picture of grief taking its toll.

"For now, it's you, me, and Thomas. Ain't that right Tommy boy?," Mirabelle shouted towards the driver of the car. Thomas was a younger man, quiet and contemplative, but not someone to underestimate and certainly no one to trifle with. Sansa hadn't been told that by Mirabelle, but had guessed as much. More often than not, Thomas was ordered to watch over Mirabelle and why else would Sandor entrust Mirabelle's safety to the man if he wasn't up to par with the task?

For the rest of the drive back to the Moriarti mansion, Sansa remained silent and politely listened as Mirabelle filled the car with chatter. She was clearly a woman who could not abide by silence, uncomfortable or not. As the funeral procession pulled into the half circle drive of the mansion, Sansa gratefully undid her seat belt and stepped from the car. Mirabelle led her to the expansive back patio of the mansion where other funeral goers were now gathering, mingling amongst one another to drown their sorrows in food, drink, and conversation.

Seeking shelter from the pounding sun beneath an overhang, Sansa perched herself on the stone ledge that formed a perimeter around the outdoor patio of the Moriarti mansion and tried to remain inconspicuous. No one seemed to notice her except Sandor, of course, but then again he always seemed to notice her. Swinging her feet back and forth while she contemplated nothing in particular, Sansa could feel him looking at her. Lifting her eyes slightly and peering through her eyelashes, he was indeed looking her way from the other side of the patio. His eyes considered her with concern as he stood amongst a group of men, clearly only half engaged in the conversation. He had been making his rounds through the crowds of people; shaking hands, offering his commiseration, obliging as his men pulled him into conversations.

Three days had passed since the incident in Las Vegas and the house had been astir with Alonzo's funeral preparations. Every day there was a new face loitering about; men in suits with stern looks straining their eyes and pulling their lips into scowls, elegant women corralling unruly small children, old ladies with thick Italian accents meandering about the kitchen, preparing unimaginable amounts of food and offering one another tearful condolences over steaming pots of marinara sauce. Sansa had quickly gotten lost in the shuffle, hardly noticed as the men sequestered themselves in the basement lounge to smoke cigars, drink whiskey, and gamble away their sorrows while the women filled the kitchen to drown their sorrows in tiramisu, Chianti, and chit-chat.

The first night Sansa had obliged the invitation to socialize despite her internal misgivings, letting the Italian "mothers"- as Mirabelle called them- fawn over her, offer her plate after plate of food, and regale her with stories of their days as young girls growing up in post war Italy. Sansa had smiled graciously, nibbled on risotto and bruschetta, sipped on a cocktail of limoncello and soda water, and exhibited the social etiquette her mother had brought her up in. But on the inside she was screaming. It felt wrong, all of it. Why the hell was she forced to be a part of this? What did she have to do with any of it? She was a bird in a cage put on display for all the women to 'ooh' and 'aah' over as they stroked her auburn hair, so unlike their own, and giggle at how pale her skin was and blue her eyes were.

The second night she had bowed out, hid herself away in what was now considered her bedroom and feigned an upset stomach when Mirabelle had come to retrieve her. Smiling sweetly and nodding her head in understanding, Mirabelle's eyes had flashed with a sort of disappointment at Sansa's refusal, yet the woman had left her alone all the same and for that Sansa had been grateful. Collapsing to the floor and pulling her knees tight to her chest, she had let the tears come, the tears she had been hiding behind fake smiles and acquiescent courtesies. With the women downstairs laughing and eagerly talking over one another, she doubted they heard her as she sobbed her own sorrow. She too was mourning her dead, but unlike them, she hadn't done so over plates of Italian cuisine with dozens of close friends offering warm hugs and reassuring condolences spoken with loving words. She was alone in her sorrow, alone in the darkness and stillness of the bedroom with only the full moon offering its cold, lunar embrace on silver streams of light pouring through the window.

Lowering herself to the ground, Sansa had cried until the tears saturated the carpet below her, until the ache in her heart had numbed to the extent that the pain was now tolerable, until the assault of sadness had subsided and she drifted into sleep. Sometime in the middle of the night, Sansa had awoken to Mirabelle crouched down next to her, stroking her hair with a look of shock plastered across her face.  _'Holy shit, girl! Why are you sleeping on the ground_?' Sansa hadn't answered, but as Mirabelle flicked on the lights and saw Sansa's swollen eyes and nose red from crying, she had understood and looked as though she might burst into tears herself. If anything, Mirabelle was empathetic, seemingly sharing the burden of other people's grief and if anyone understood a little of Sansa's grief, it would be Mirabelle.

Last night, the third night, Sansa had once more declined the invitation to join the other ladies in the festivities of their mourning. She hadn't needed to feign a physical ailment. She had been rolling around in bed half of the day with cramps like nothing she had ever felt before. If she hadn't known any better, Sansa would have sworn her uterus was turning itself inside out. A hot shower, two cups of jasmine tea with honey, and three Midol later she had  _finally_ started to feel somewhat back to normal again; normal enough to throw on a black cotton maxi dress before emerging from the bedroom and out into the darkened hallway.

As Sansa approached the staircase, she could hear laughter pouring from the kitchen and up the stairs to meet her ears. Biting her lip, she contemplated joining them, but almost immediately vetoed her own contemplation. She wasn't up for spending time with the other women and feeling out of place. She already felt out of place, she didn't need them to remind her of that. Lifting her eyes slightly, Sansa gazed up the staircase that led to the level above her.

The third floor of the mansion was unknown to her, something she had only fleetingly noticed. It hadn't occurred to her what might be housed on the third floor although she supposed it didn't rightly matter. The bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and parlor were the only rooms of the house she had needed to make use of. Reflecting back, it had seemed to her that even then she was escorted from one room to another, shuffled about where she was wanted or needed as she went through the motions. A strange sort of curiosity had begun to tug at her as her mind ran wild with ideas as to just what might be on the upper-most level of the house.  _'A weapons cache,_ ' she had mused to herself.  _'No, a library. Or perhaps a music room filled with instruments.'_ Her heart at skipped a beat at the last possibility. Refusing to spend the evening rolling around and sobbing in the fetal position on the floor, Sansa had resigned herself to delve into her curiosity and occupy her mind with a little adventure to the third floor.

With the women stuffing their faces with pastries and drinking espresso out of itty bitty doll cups, Sansa had convinced herself no one would notice if she slipped away, melting into the shadows. She had all but stopped breathing when the thought occurred to her.  _'I could leave. I could forget about the third floor and slip away into the night instead.'_ She was an hour and a half north of Las Vegas; she had been sure to commit that to memory. The men were drinking themselves into oblivion in the basement lounge. Chances were they could barely see straight, let alone have enough senses about them to see to it that the little bird didn't fly away.  _'Little bird. He calls me little bird.'_ If the thought of running away had stopped her breathing, that thought- the recollection of Sandor's term of endearment for her- had nearly stopped the beating of her heart. Her head was screaming at her, irate with a fury that demanded she take the opportunity that had been given to her; to leave, to run, to get out of there. But something else, something strange and dark and powerful, had settled in her body and cemented her feet to the floor, making them feel like cinder blocks attached to her legs.

She could not move and somehow the thought of running away scared her more than the thought of staying. She had come to believe that Sandor and Mirabelle would not hurt her. In fact, she had come to know that with a certainty. What she didn't know and was still left to wonder about was why other people had been sent to come after her and had tried to hurt her. In the darkness of night, those people could still be out there, waiting for her to slip away so that they might snatch her up. That thought alone had been enough to send her scurrying up the stairs and towards the third floor of the mansion, content in that moment just to explore the upstairs of which she knew nothing about.

Without the residual light from the first floor, the third floor was much darker than the second. Squinting her eyes to adjust against the darkness, Sansa had tentatively stepped forward in slow steps, shuffling her bare feet along the carpet to avoid stubbing her toes on any lurking pieces of furniture. Half of the top floor was an open area, a loft of sorts with cozy couches and arm chairs adorned with decorative pillows. Surprised by how unassuming it looked compared to the rest of the house, Sansa allowed a wistful half smile to crease her lips. It reminded her of home and with that thought she felt her smile erode away. Turning around, Sansa spotted a hallway situated adjacent to the loft area and at the end of the hall there was light spilling out from underneath a closed door.

She had known it would have been best to turn back, to convince herself that nothing of importance resided on the third floor and resign herself to retreat back downstairs. With a panging of curiosity, Sansa disobeyed the internal urging and slowly traversed the room with soft steps. The voices from the kitchen had ebbed to a faint murmuring as she made her way down the hallway and towards the door at the end. If someone was in the room, they were quietly going about their business, whatever it may be. Sansa had heard nothing; not the faintest whisper of voices, nor the softest of footsteps. All was quiet, or so it had seemed.

Reflecting back, Sansa still had no idea what had possessed her to lift her hand to the knob and try to open the door. She imagined her curiosity had begun to outweigh any sort of fear that was left lingering in the back of her mind. Jiggling the doorknob, Sansa had been quick to realize the door had been locked and the secrets of the room at the end of the hall were meant to remain intact. Sighing half in disappointment and half in frustration, Sansa had decided that nothing interesting resided on the third floor. No weapon caches, no library, and certainly no musical instruments that she could occupy herself with. When she had spun around to return back downstairs, Sansa had careened into a looming figure standing behind her. She had nearly fallen on her ass as she stumbled backwards from the force at which she had bounced off of the obscured form. Suddenly, two hands had emerged from the darkness and encircled her forearms, steadying her to her feet and not letting go once she had found her footing.

"I'm sorry," Sansa had automatically squeaked out on a breathless whisper.

"Are you lost?," the figure had retorted with an irritated rasp and Sansa had known immediately who the voice belonged to. Come to think of it, Sandor hadn't needed to say anything. Sansa had sensed it was him; his size, the strength of his grip on her forearms, the smell of whiskey and musk had all clued her into the fact that Sandor had come up behind her although she hadn't heard him approach.

"No…I…I just…" Suddenly feeling her heart beat frantically in her chest, Sansa struggled over her own words, trying to come up with something to tell him.

"Well?" Sandor had pulled her closer to him when Sansa tried to squirm away. His grip was iron tight on her forearms and by the way he tugged on her until their bodies were flush in the darkness, Sansa had known he wasn't letting her off the hook that easy.

"I wanted to see the rest of the house." Swallowing hard, Sansa had settled on telling him the truth. Well, a partial truth. She hadn't really cared about the rest of the house. She was bored, anxious, and uncomfortable, both by her cramps and by the thought of spending time with the women downstairs. She had doubted he wanted to hear all of that so she decided only to tell him the first bit of it.

Despite the darkness, Sansa could tell that Sandor had been contemplating her. She imagined if the lights had been on he would have been staring at her through narrowed eyes, studying her with an icy scrutiny until he spoke once more. When he did finally speak, his voice had darkened with something between agitated anger and bitter amusement.

"Don't lie to me, girl. Remember what I said about lying."

"I'm not lying!," she had abruptly responded, her defiance dangerously testing his mood.

Sansa's instinct to pull away and free herself from his grasp was met with his hands tightening once more around her forearms as he tugged her back towards him. Despite what she imagined was an effort to be somewhat gentle, the tug manifested as more of a yank which elicited a tiny yelp as Sansa stumbled forward into him. Still grasping her by the forearms, Sandor pulled her into him until her tiny balled fists and forearms rested against his chest.

"Sandor! Please, you're hurting me." That had been a lie, a lie he must have believed because he had broken his grip on her forearms and let his arms fall to his side. She couldn't read his face through the darkness, but she could feel the sense of pride and disbelief as he heard his own name pass her lips even if she was asking him to let her go.

"Sansa..." He had said her name almost apologetically and as if he had meant to say something else, something that was weighing on his mind. A heaviness had settled between them and it was only then that Sansa realized that despite him letting her go, her hands and forearms were still pressed against his chest. She could feel his heart pounding, the steady beat pulsing hard against her skin. Suddenly, she had felt one of his arms snake around the small of her back, his fingers eagerly gripping the side of her waist as he pressed her even closer into him. With his other hand cradling the back of her head, his fingers nestled and intertwined amongst the wavy locks of her hair.

"I'm sorry. Just let me go please," Sansa had whined on a tremulous whisper, not understanding what was happening and entirely confused by her body's reaction to him. He was strong, so much stronger than her, and seemed to see right through to her core. He was harsh and unpredictable with his moods, but protective and somehow gentle with her despite his gruff demeanor and fearsome reputation. It was unsettling. It was troubling. It was exhilarating.

"And if I don't want to?" Feeling his breath hot against her cheek, Sansa knew he had brought his face closer to hers. It should have scared her and she knew that, but even if she wanted to, Sansa couldn't help the shockwaves she felt surging through her body. She had remained completely motionless; afraid to move, afraid  _not_ to move, not knowing what to say or what to do. Instead, she hadn't said anything, but rather dropped her head so that her gaze resided somewhere towards the floor.

In the end, Sandor had been the one to pull away, uncoiling his arm from around her back and disentwining his fingers from her hair before shoving a hand in his pocket and pulling out a key. Standing in the darkened hallway, Sansa had heard the sound of metal scrape against metal as Sandor unlocked the door at the end of the hallway. With her eyes still glued to the floor, Sansa had seen the light in the periphery of her vision as it poured into the darkness from the opened door. Lifting her gaze ever so slightly, Sansa saw his silhouette hovering in the door frame, his hulking figure barely contained within the opening.

"Goodnight, Sansa." That was all he had said before turning away from her and shutting the door behind him.

Shaking her head and uncrossing her legs, Sansa broke herself from the reverie. She felt a blush slowly creeping across her cheeks and down her neck. She had been replaying the scenario in her head all morning, unable to stop the memory from meandering its way back into the forefront of her mind and embarrassed that she had been fixated on it. It's not like he had kissed her. He hadn't even really embraced her. But something about the way he had touched her, the way his fingers seemed to eagerly find their place on her body… And there she went again thinking about it. She had to stop. She had to occupy her mind with something else, anything else.

Lifting her gaze, Sansa saw Mirabelle seated next to Bronn, one arm gently draped around his shoulders while the other rested lightly on his arm. Resting his elbows on the tops of his thighs, the man was cradling his face in his hands and by the way his chest seemed to subtly heave, Sansa could tell he was crying. Others looked on sympathetically, nodding their approval at Mirabelle who flashed a half smile in return as she rubbed Bronn's back in a comforting gesture.

_'Death comes in threes, child. Always in threes.'_

Scanning the clusters of bodies piled onto the patio, Sansa considered her grandmother Tully's ominous words. If death came in threes, who would be next? Which soul sauntering about, eating meatballs and drinking wine, would add to Alonzo's trine? Or perhaps Alonzo was preceded in death. Podrick Payne, Myranda Royce, Catelyn Stark, Charlotte Royce, Nestor Royce. Sansa only needed to remember the massacre at the Royce's party to realize that death had exceeded its multiplicity.

Suddenly the thought occurred to her: how many funerals had she missed? How many people that she once knew were now buried beneath the cold ground to rot away for eternity? And how many people were beginning to think they might need to add Sansa Stark to the list of dead?

The thought elicited angry tears to form from her eyes and spill hot against her cheeks. Sansa flicked the sunglasses from off of her head and pushed them down over her eyes. She didn't want people to see her crying, to ask questions, or worse, to pretend to know what she was upset over and attempt to console her.

The crowd on the patio was starting to thin out, many retreating inside for respite from the glaring noonday sun. Sandor remained engaged in a conversation with three other men, each animatedly gesturing with their hands as they talked. In contrast, Sandor remained stoic with his arms crossed about his chest, nodding every now and then and speaking here and there when a question was posed to him. However, his stare remained more or less on Sansa, every once and awhile breaking away as he addressed one of the men. Eventually, Sansa watched as Sandor shook each of the man's hands and clapped one of them on the back before breaking away. She had expected him to get pulled into another conversation, for yet another person to come up to him and unload whatever was on their mind. Instead, Sandor made his way towards her, his hands tucked into his pockets as he approached in casual strides.

With her heart steadily beginning to beat faster, Sansa sat up straight and mindlessly twirled a strand of hair around her index finger as she desperately tried to occupy her hands which were now trembling. Sandor remained silent as he lowered himself to sit down next to her, resting his forearms on knees while his fingers interlaced with one another. For many moments he said nothing and Sansa began to feel an urge to fill the silence. Apparently, like Mirabelle, Sansa was not one who handled sudden silences well. At least not when it came to Sandor. She suddenly felt a nervous need to talk.

"I'm sorry for your loss. Alonzo was a good man." It was all Sansa could think to say. It was true. She was sorry for his loss and Alonzo was a good man, but Sansa couldn't help the bitterness that tinged her voice.

Turning his gaze towards Sansa, Sandor pondered her with amused disbelief before shifting his eyes back in front of him.

"My loss…" His voice trailed off as he squinted against the sun and contemplated the mourners still lingering about the patio. Sitting up while he huffed a small laugh, Sandor swiveled his stare towards Sansa once more and reached out one of his large hands towards her face.

Although she hadn't flinched, Sansa felt her breath catch in her throat as Sandor's fingertips brushed her cheek. Carefully, he pulled the sunglasses from off of her face and sealed his lips in a scowl as he contemplated her eyes still wet with tears. Something seemed to change in him in that moment. Sansa watched as his eyes seemed to widen ever so slightly as he shook his head slowly.

"You've lost more than I have, little bird."

Turning towards her, Sandor took one of her hands in his, resting them on top of his leg. Sandor's eyes softened as they ran a circuit between her own eyes down to her lips, across her flushed cheeks, and back to her eyes. Transfixed, Sansa watched as he did this, noticing by the way his chest steadily rose and fell that his breaths were coming ragged from his mouth. His eyes burned with the same sort of desire she had seen in him at the Royce's party yet this ran deeper. It was lust encased in passion, the pure fervor pulsing wild within his body and manifesting on labored breaths.

As his stare bore into her, seemingly ripping right through her, Sansa let her eyes flicker up to his and was shocked to find she couldn't look away, not for the life of her. A wave of heat seemed to flush over her body and she felt as though she had to struggle to breathe, pulling in ragged breaths and exhaling through parted lips. Feeling as though she might burn alive, Sansa begrudgingly let her eyes fall away and towards her hand still tucked between Sandor's. As she slowly closed her eyes, the last tears broke free and rolled down her cheeks. Pulling one of his hands away from hers, Sandor brushed the pad of his thumb against each of her cheeks in turn, catching the tears before pulling both of his hands away from her.

"We need to talk. There are things I haven't told you that I need to. I wanted to sooner, but I've been pulled in a thousand fucking directions since all of this happened." Gesturing towards the patio with a sweeping motion of his hand, Sandor set his stare in front of him once more.

"They'll all be gone by this evening. So tonight. When we won't be interrupted. Will you have dinner with me?" Resting his forearms on his knees once more, Sandor turned his eyes to Sansa. If he was nervous asking her to have dinner with him, he wasn't showing it. Instead, he asked as casually as someone might ask what time it is or what the weather will be like today.

Feeling butterflies fluttering about her stomach, Sansa couldn't help the small, shy smile that formed on her lips.

"Yes. Yes I will," she replied softly as she timidly forced her eyes to meet his. With a curt nod and a twitch of his mouth, Sandor stood and smoothed down the front of his pants before stepping in front of her. Feeling her nervous shyness grip her, Sansa coyly tucked her hands underneath her legs as she let her eyes hover towards the ground. Reaching out towards her, Sandor placed his fingertips under her chin and gently lifted her head until she was looking at him.

"Seven," he said confidently with an assured half smile.

 _'Your moon resides in the seventh house of marriage.'_ Unbidden, the sound of her grandmother's voice filled Sansa's head. With her eyes widening, she stifled a gasp.

"Seven?," Sansa inquired with a trembling voice.

Chuckling softly, Sandor nodded his head before removing his hand from underneath her chin.

"Seven o'clock tonight. I'll see you for dinner." With that, Sandor strode away and retreated into the Moriarti mansion.

_'Love will come with much difficulty for you, Sansa; much tragedy too…'_

* * *

Slipping his fingers between the collar of his shirt and the black tie around his neck, Sandor gave a hard yank and breathed a sigh of relief as the oppressive tightness of the fabric loosened immediately. He hardly ever wore ties, didn't really see much need for them, but Mirabelle had insisted. Snorting a laugh at Mirabelle's seeming influence over him as of late, Sandor shook his head as he paced towards the small bar situated in the corner of his office.

Perusing the assorted bottles of scotch, Sandor settled on a single malt whiskey. It was smoky, strong, and exactly what he needed in this moment. The past few days had been stressful and he wasn't exaggerating when he told Sansa he had been pulled in a thousand fucking directions since what went down in Las Vegas. While the women took care of the funeral arrangements, Sandor's men had descended upon him, all feeling the need to throw in their two cents with bloody thirsty rants. Sandor had obliged them, listening to their concerns, their calls for retaliation, their diatribes about the integrity of the family being at stake.

After the first night of listening to liquor induced tirades, Sandor had had enough and decided he needed to address his men as a whole. It had been clear to him that many did not understand what went down in Vegas, many had heard what had happened and jumped to conclusions; conclusions that were either grievously wrong or splintered with half truths and gossip. If there was one thing Sandor fucking hated, it was lies and gossip, regardless of the intentions.

Standing amongst his men in the smoke filled lounge, Sandor had put the rumors to bed; starting with the idea that Emilio had instigated it all and ending with the whispers he had heard about Sansa being a liability to the family. Commandingly, Sandor had laid it all out on the table. There was no sense in hiding anything from his men. As far as he was concerned, deception and deceit were venom to an organization and should be sucked out immediately. Judging by the sea of heads bobbing up and down in agreement, the men had accepted all that Sandor had thrown down at their feet. All, but one thing.

"The Stark girl," one man situated in the back of the room had shouted out. "What are we doing with her? Is she coming or going? Much respect to you, boss, but the girl has got to be either in or out. In my experience, this on the fence shit spells tragedy for all involved. For her. For you. For  _us_."

As the man emerged from the crowd, seemingly manifesting from puffs of cigar smoke, Sandor had recognized him. He was older, an artifact from the era in which Alberto ran the show, and had been a former street boss. Although he had stepped down many years ago, the man remained involved in the family, offering his advice and support where needed, but mostly sticking around for the camaraderie the family offered.

Once the man had said his peace, he disappeared back into the crowd of men which had fallen silent in anticipation of Sandor's response. Suddenly, Sandor felt as though the spot light had been shone on him. Swallowing hard, he hadn't quite known what to tell them. The man had spoken truly. Sansa needed to either be in or out, not that Sandor was about to put her out, but it meant she needed to know  _everything_. In fact, if anyone needed to know everything it was her. And he planned on telling her it all, laying it out for her just as he had done for his men.

Sighing deeply as he poured himself drink, Sandor began going through it all in his head, mentally working backwards and listing out all the things he needed to tell her. This was going to be a long conversation and an emotional one for her. Undoubtedly, there were things that would be difficult for Sansa to hear, to wrap her head around. The truth wasn't always pretty, but she had been through hell and back and it was the least he felt he could do, to let her know why this was happening to her.

Settling himself in his office chair, Sandor snatched up a pen and let it fall from one hand to the other as he contemplated whether or not to write out a list of everything he needed to tell her. Laughing at himself, Sandor shook his head as he dropped the pen and ran his hands over his face.  _Fuck that. No lists._

He knew everything anyway. It's not like any of it was easy to forget. And if she saw him pull a goddamn list from his pocket, she was likely to think he'd gone soft for her.  _Fuck that. I'm not going soft._ Taking a sip from his glass and letting the whiskey swirl about his tongue, Sandor felt it was somehow becoming harder to convince himself of that.

Suddenly, a soft knock came from outside his office. Freezing in place, Sandor narrowed his eyes at the door and glanced at the clock on his desk. He wasn't expecting anyone for at least another hour and he had been looking forward to some alone time. Frustrated, Sandor growled out for whomever it was to come in.

Slowly the door creaked open and Mirabelle peeked through the opening, flashing a goofy smile as she skipped into his office and plopped down in the chair across from him.  _Fucking hell, she wants something._ Mirabelle had figured out long ago how to get what she wanted from Sandor. There wasn't much he wouldn't do for his little sister and unfortunately Mirabelle had figured that out too.

Smiling sweetly, Mirabelle rested her elbows on the edge of Sandor's desk and cradled her chin in the palms of her hands. Tilting her head to the side, Mirabelle blinked slowly and pouted her lips slightly. Before Sandor could ask what exactly she wanted, Mirabelle brought her arms down to rest on his desk and leaned forward, lowering her voice.

"Let me take Sansa out." It was something between a question and a demand, but the hopefulness was what caught Sandor's attention. Mirabelle stared up at him with eyes wide and wistful.

"Out where?," Sandor inquired as he narrowed his eyes at Mirabelle. Not that he was even going to entertain her request, but he at least wanted to know where Mirabelle wanted to take the little bird.

"I don't know.  _Out._ Not very far, somewhere close. And just for a little bit, a couple hours. We can take one of your men with us." The hopefulness in Mirabelle's voice had turned to pleading as she pressed her palms together almost as if she were praying to him.

"No. Absolutely not," Sandor shot back, not giving a flying fuck how badly he was crushing her hopes right now and how he was answering her "prayers" with a resounding  _no_. What the hell was Mirabelle thinking? She wasn't thinking, that was for damn sure. Mirabelle was reckless at times, hard to control because she did what she wanted, acting first and thinking later.

" _Pleaaaassee._ "

Sandor shook his head at her childish pleas and crossed his arms about his chest. True enough, he'd do anything to make sure Mirabelle was happy and taken care of, but this was asking too much. Three days after the Vegas incident wasn't nearly enough time to let the dust settle. Sansa was in danger and Sandor was beginning to think that maybe Mirabelle needed her memory refreshed on the predicament they were in with Sansa.

"Mirabelle, it's out of the question. I said no." Sandor took a long pull from his drink and welcomed the dull warmth that expanded down his chest as he drank down his scotch.

Settling back in her seat, Mirabelle's entire demeanor changed. Her brow furrowed with worry and her lips were pressed together tightly in a frown. Shaking her head, Mirabelle stared mindlessly towards the floor as if lost in her thoughts.

"If you had seen her the other night, Sandor… even your heart would have broken for her."

Sandor allowed his mouth to curl into a half smile. He had seen Sansa the other night. Well…sort of. The hallway had been dark, all but forcing Sandor to rely on his other senses to decipher her form, namely touch. While his heart hadn't broken for her, his body had responded in other ways. He hadn't told Mirabelle about it though and imagined it was probably for the best.

"I'm having dinner with her tonight and I'm telling her then. Everything, I'm telling her everything," Sandor relented as he saw just how concerned Mirabelle was. That didn't seem to attenuate his sister as she shook her head abruptly and folded her arms tightly across her chest.

"And you think that will just fix it all? All of the sudden she'll just magically be put back together?," Mirabelle inquired bluntly as she leaned forward in her seat, arms still defensively folded around her.

Feeling his irritation rising, Sandor settled back in his seat, drumming his fingers on the desk as he watched Mirabelle. Biting her lip, she seemed to be fuming, her cheeks beginning to flush red. She wasn't immune to the Clegane temper, no more than he was and Sandor knew when his sister's fury was fresh upon her.

"I think…maybe…," she started as she uncrossed her arms and scooted to the edge of her seat. "It's just…you know what, never mind." With that, Mirabelle pushed herself from the seat and made for the door, stomping her feet as she went.

"Say it.  _Now,_ " Sandor demanded as Mirabelle reached for the door knob, stopping his sister dead in her tracks. Spinning on her heel, his sister turned to face him and traversed the distance back across the room.

"I've tried to cheer her up. Believe me, I've tried, Sandor," Mirabelle exhaled on an exasperated breath as she paced in front of his desk. "What if…I mean, what if she…you know…doesn't want  _me_  to cheer her up."

Stopping in front of him, Mirabelle pressed her palms against his desk and leaned forward, cocking her head to the side. "What if she wants…no, what if she  _needs_  something else, someone else."

A tiny, hopeful smile once more appeared on Mirabelle's lips. Sandor had to stifle a laugh as he shook his head at her.

"And you think that someone is me?," he asked incredulously, lifting one eyebrow.

"I've seen the way you look at her," Mirabelle replied as she narrowed her eyes at him. "I've  _never_  seen you look at someone like that before. I mean, what was that moment you were having on the patio just a few minutes ago?"

Sandor snorted his contempt as he glared at Mirabelle. He hadn't thought anyone had seen that interaction between him and Sansa, not that he cared if anyone had. He could care fucking less what anyone thought about his interactions with Sansa. Nothing was happening between them and even if anything was, it wasn't everyone else's goddamn business.

"It wasn't a moment," he shot back, realizing there was no use in denying the way he looked at Sansa. He settled on denying the only thing he could.

"Oh bullshit! It was a  _moment_. And you don't have moments with people, Sandor. And besides, you call her 'little bird.' Since when are you handing out pet names?" With one hand on her hip and the other pointing an index finger at him accusingly, Sandor sensed that Mirabelle knew she was slowly but surely backing him into a corner. The thought was enough to make him want to rage. He fucking hated when she did this. Feeling his hands curling into fists, Sandor said nothing as he stared at the drink on his desk.

"You have a thing for her, just admit it. Everyone already knows." Suddenly relenting a bit, Mirabelle smiled with a smug sense of satisfaction. Sandor had nearly spit out the mouthful of whiskey that had just passed his lips. Gulping down whiskey, Sandor wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before setting an icy stare on Mirabelle.

"Who the  _fuck_ is everyone?"

"All the wives of your men. They were asking me about it the other night. They think she's your girl." Mirabelle smiled at the last bit, clearly either excited at the prospect or trying desperately to get a rise out of him. Sandor imagined it was the latter.

 _Fucking flock of hens._ Shaking his head, Sandor wondered what else the women had gossiped about while the men dealt with their own business. Hopefully they hadn't filled Sansa's head with a bunch of bullshit and nonsense.

"They're bored housewives with nothing better to do than gossip. I'll be sure to tell my men to go home and give their wives a good fucking. That way they can occupy themselves with their husband's cocks and quit worrying about what I may or may not be doing with mine."

With that, Sandor shuffled a stack of papers around his desk and snatched up his pen, attempting to put up the front that he was busy. He wanted this conversation to be over, but knowing Mirabelle, she wasn't about to let him have the last word.

"Oh, I'm  _so_ scared!," Mirabelle began as she threw her hands in the air, waving them around before grasping her chest as if feigning fear. "You're such a big bad Hound with your dirty mouth and weapons and drinking problem. Such a freakin' bad ass until sweet, soft spoken, doe-eyed Sansa Stark comes into the picture and now you're hanging out on patios caressing tears away from your little bird's face. But yes, you're right. No one really notices any of that coming from you.  _Totally_  inconspicuous, pal!"

If Mirabelle hadn't been his sister, Sandor would have thrown her out on her ass for that. Biting back a cutting response, Sandor knew she had the right of it, mostly. Once more, he settled on responding to the only thing he disagreed with.

"I don't have a drinking problem," he shot back defensively. True, he loved his scotch, but alcohol didn't control his life like it did some of his men. Despite this, Sandor cast a sideways glance at his half empty glass of whiskey. Laughing, Mirabelle rolled her eyes at him before throwing her hands up in acquiescence.

"You're such a fucking weirdo. Alright, I'll leave you be so you can plan your date with her."

"It's not a date. And I mean it, Mirabelle. Sansa stays here," Sandor threatened as he pointed a finger at Mirabelle. Most of the time Mirabelle obeyed when he needed her to and Sandor hoped that this would be one of those instances. If there were any time he needed Mirabelle to listen, it needed to be with this one.

"Aye, aye Captain." With a wink and a smile, Mirabelle exited the room as she had entered, skipping through the doorway with a goofy smile.

Sighing deeply, Sandor grabbed his cocktail glass and paced over towards the other side of the room before dumping the drink down the small bar sink. He didn't have a drinking problem, but tonight was going to be a long night and Sandor thought it best that he remain sober.

* * *

_He still thinks I’m a child.  Still.  After 27 years he still sees me as his baby ‘Belle._

Mirabelle once more rolled her eyes as she sauntered down the hallway from her brother’s office.  Sighing as she descended the staircase, Mirabelle realized that she would _always_ be his baby sister.  Therefore, in his eyes she would probably always be a child; helpless and constantly needing his protection.  True enough, she rebelled against him whenever his protective shtick got a little too heavy, but she was a grown ass woman and every now and then appreciated being treated like it.  

Smiling to herself, Mirabelle remembered the look on Sandor’s face when she threw in there that he had a drinking problem.  It had been meant as a joke, but apparently it struck home with him.  Fuck, if he had a drinking problem, then she had better sign them _both_ up for AA meetings.  Being a Clegane, Mirabelle could put down a bottle of wine in one night if need be.  And lately, it had needed to be. Between the Las Vegas incident, the Royce party and that aftermath, then Alonzo’s funeral preparations, Mirabelle had needed the distraction. 

And then there was Sansa, the sweet girl whose life was beginning to mirror Mirabelle’s just a little too much for comfort.  Almost immediately, Mirabelle had felt the urge to protect Sansa, to shelter her from the darkness and violence that was desperately seeking to swallow the poor girl whole.  There was so much, so _very_ much, Sansa did not know and Mirabelle had wanted to tell her.  However, she knew it wasn’t her place to tell the girl and beyond that there were things even Mirabelle didn’t know; things that she had a distorted view of, as if looking through a kaleidoscope and seeing the world painted in beauty.  Beneath it all, Mirabelle knew what the world was though and she knew the heartache and horror it contained. 

What Mirabelle could not let slide, what she had decided she needed to tell Sansa, was that Sandor, despite everything that had happened, was _not_ the monster in this whole ordeal.  Sure, her brother could be a raging asshole sometimes, but despite his brooding and moodiness, he had more character and conviction than anyone Mirabelle had ever known.  She loved Sandor with all her heart and without him Mirabelle doubted she would be alive.  With that thought in mind, Mirabelle smiled as she retreated into her bedroom and began pulling off her black dress.  She had only needed to remember how much her brother cared about her to understand why he still treated her as if she were this fragile thing, always needing him to shelter her. 

Flipping through the clothes in her closet, Mirabelle settled on a blue sundress with large green flowers printed on it.  It was a dress that Mrs. Moriarti had gotten for Mirabelle during her travels to Spain.  Despite being a teenager when coming into Mirabelle’s life, Francisca Moriarti had been like a mother to her. 

As Mirabelle pulled her long black hair into a ponytail, her thoughts once more returned to Sansa.  In truth, Sandor hadn’t known and still didn’t know what had happened to Sansa’s mother.  Perhaps through a coping mechanism, Sansa had assumed the worse, not wanting to have her hopes crushed if she went on thinking her mother was still alive somewhere.  The thought of what Sansa was going through sent pangs of heartache through Mirabelle’s chest as she remembered what it was like to lose her own mother at a young age, to be thrown into a life you didn’t want or ask for. 

Still, Mirabelle could hardly imagine what Sansa must be going through; to be away from home, to have no idea what is going on and why, to have to sleep under someone else’s roof, wear another woman’s clothes.  Shaking her head as she slipped into a pair of bright blue ballet flats, Mirabelle was determined to be there for Sansa, to do whatever she could to make the girl’s life here just a little more bearable. 

Luckily, Sandor had told her he was _finally_ planning on telling the girl everything.  If he hadn’t told her that, Mirabelle would have been half tempted to bust into his office and lay into him about being a supreme jackass about the whole thing. However, a part of her understood.  Their lives had been turned upside down the past couple of days.  Mirabelle hadn’t planned on hosting damn near the entire mafia family, their wives and kids.  Poor Sansa had gotten lost in the shuffle and Mirabelle was resolved to pour her attention and energy back into the girl once more. 

_Fuck it. I’m taking her out.  Thomas can come with us._

Thomas had a thing for Mirabelle and she knew it.  Not that she exploited it, but if it happened to work in her favor then there was no harm in maybe playing it up a little.  Besides, the mafia men were too afraid to make a pass at Mirabelle.  Many of them were convinced any man that went for the Hound’s sister was a dead man walking.  Chuckling to herself as she worked her way down to the first floor, Mirabelle remembered the first boyfriend she had introduced to Sandor.  The guy ended up being a prick and Sandor had made the dude’s life a living hell.  When the guy spread rumors about Mirabelle going down on him, Sandor had followed him home from work, shoved him into a wall, and broke his nose, jaw, and a handful of ribs.  Needless to say, the rumors stopped after that. 

Through the great room windows, Mirabelle spotted a flash of auburn hair out on the patio and smiled warmly.  _There she is._

As Mirabelle made her way out on the patio, she realized much of the funeral goers had cleared out, either busying themselves in the kitchen, retreating to the basement lounge, or taking off to head back to their respective homes.  Mirabelle felt a tug of guilt at seeing Sansa essentially alone on the patio, staring off towards the expanse of desert behind the Moriarti mansion. 

Leaning back on her elbows, Sansa had extended her legs along the wide stone ledge of the patio and appeared to be soaking up the sun.  Tilting her head to the right as Mirabelle approached, a cascade of auburn hair fell from Sansa’s shoulder and down the side of her arm.  For being just shy of eighteen, the girl was so damn pretty and carried herself with the grace of a woman. 

As Mirabelle approached, Sansa sat up and swung her legs from off the ledge, making room for Mirabelle to sit. 

“How you holding up, baby girl?,” Mirabelle inquired softly as she draped an arm around Sansa affectionately.  

Sansa furrowed her eyebrows as she contemplated her hands folded neatly in her lap.  Saying nothing, the girl shrugged her shoulders and shook her head.  Sansa hadn’t needed to say anything.  Mirabelle could see that today had been rough on her.  With that knowledge in mind, Mirabelle felt a fire rising up within her, an instantaneous need to make Sansa smile and laugh and maybe forget some of her worries, even if just for a hot second. 

Shifting herself so that she was facing Sansa, Mirabelle lightly brushed the girl’s hair from the side of her face. She loved Sansa’s hair and if the girl would let her, Mirabelle would love nothing more than to spend hours doing her hair up in all sorts of ways. 

“You wanna go somewhere? Get out for a little bit?,” Mirabelle asked gleefully.  She wanted desperately to get out of the house and beyond that wanted to do something nice for Sansa.  The Moriarti mansion was filled to the brim with testosterone.  Sure, there had been women wondering about the past few days, but they weren’t necessarily the type of women Mirabelle liked to surround herself with.  They were either old as hell and spoke broken English or they were some hoity-toity mob wives.  It wasn’t really Mirabelle’s scene.

By the way Sansa seemed to tense up and how her brow folded even more with worry, Mirabelle could tell that the girl wasn’t sold on the idea and if this little adventure was going to happen, it was going to take some convincing on Mirabelle’s part. 

“I…I don’t know.  Is that really a good idea?” Sansa shifted her stare towards Mirabelle.  Her bright blue eyes were considering Mirabelle with apprehension, searching her face for some sort of reassurance.  Nodding her head and sighing, Mirabelle set her eyes to match Sansa’s.

“Listen, we won’t go far, just a few minutes’ drive from here. And we’ll take Thomas with us,” Mirabelle assured as she took Sansa’s hands into her own and gave a little squeeze.  “He won’t let anything bad happen.  We won’t be gone for long. A couple hours tops. No one will even notice.”

Mirabelle watched as Sansa’s brow seemed to relax a bit while her head cocked to the side with a tiny smile pulling at the corners of her lips. 

“What about Sandor, can’t he come with us?,” Sansa inquired shyly, letting her eyes fall away from Mirabelle and settle once more to her lap.   

The girl’s hopefulness was just too damn cute, some weird hybrid of puppy love and Stockholm syndrome.  Mirabelle bit back a smile at that.  It wasn’t funny, but it really, _really_ was.  A girl like Sansa Stark and a guy like her brother coming together and getting all starry eyed over each other was…well…unexpected and strange and probably a psychiatrist’s wet dream come true.    

“No, he’s got some things to take care of here,” Mirabelle replied with a giggle.  She doubted Sansa even knew how disappointed she looked right now.  “My girl, Arianne, owns this boutique.  It’s really unique, got this vintage gypsy vibe to it.  I think you’d love some of things she has.  We can go shopping, get you out of your cage for a bit. What do you think?”

Arianne Martell was a self-proclaimed hussy.  She loved men and wasn’t afraid of her own sexuality.  While Mirabelle didn’t partake in the same promiscuity that Arianne did, she found the girl’s openness to be refreshing and her vulgarity to be hilarious.  If anyone could pull Sansa out of her shell, it would be Arianne. 

Mirabelle nudged Sansa with her elbow and set her eyes on the girl in a mischievous and playful stare.  It seemed to work because for the first time in as long as Mirabelle could remember, Sansa’s lips curled into a smile and she eagerly nodded her head. 

Now all she needed to do was convince Thomas that her brother had approved this little outing.  Mirabelle smiled to herself.  _That shouldn’t be too hard._

 

 

 

* * *

 

_God I hope I don’t regret this later._ Sansa nervously shifted in the passenger seat next to Mirabelle.  With the windows rolled down and the radio up, Mirabelle was bobbing her head to the sound of Mick Jager’s voice.  Sansa didn’t share Mirabelle’s apparent love of this particular song. Something about it was ominous and dark and did little to settle the way Sansa’s stomach was seemingly doing flips. 

_‘Oh, a storm is threatening, my very life today…’_

Smiling a bit to dissipate her nerves, Sansa gazed towards the rear view mirror and sighed a tiny breath of relief. 

_‘If I don’t get some shelter, oh yeah I’m gonna fade away…’_

Thomas’ black sedan was behind them, following them the short distance to town where Mirabelle’s friend owned a boutique.  

_‘War, children, it’s just a shot away…it’s just a shot away…’_

Sansa had been apprehensive to take Mirabelle up on her offer, immediately feeling her stomach sour at the idea.  If Sandor had gone with them, it would have been different.  She would have jumped at the opportunity to do something _normal_.  Not that her life was normal by any means, but something that wasn’t a glaring reminder she was still down the rabbit hole with her hosts, the Moriarti family, would be nice. 

_‘Rape, murder, it’s just a shot away…it’s just a shot away…’_

As they pulled off the highway and towards the main street of town, Sansa settled in her seat a bit.  Mirabelle hadn’t been lying; they had only been in the car for maybe 8 minutes tops.  Something about that made Sansa feel leaps and bounds better.  If anything were to happen, Sandor could get here in no time.  With that thought, Sansa allowed her lips to pull into a smile.    

_‘I tell you love, sister, is just a kiss away…it’s just a kiss away’_

Mirabelle must have been staring at Sansa because she leaned forward and flicked the radio off.  Turning slightly in her seat, Mirabelle pushed her sunglasses down towards the tip of her nose and cocked an eyebrow at Sansa.

“And just what are you smiling about, Ms. _Thang_?”

Sansa let out a giggle and brought a hand up to cover her mouth, her smile.  It was a good question and a question Sansa wasn’t sure she knew the answer to.  Regardless, she wasn’t about to tell Mirabelle that the thought of Sandor had somehow made her smile.  Instead she shrugged her shoulders and came up with the only other thing she could think of.

“I don’t know.  It’s just nice to be out.” Sansa crossed her legs and smiled once more while she gazed out the window as they passed by buildings in town.  The main street was filled with an eclectic assortment of tiny shops and restaurants, each with its own distinctive vibe and décor. 

Pushing her sunglasses back up onto her face, Mirabelle flashed her own smile, a smile that was both gleaming with satisfaction as well as a sort of relief.  Clearly, Mirabelle wanted Sansa to enjoy herself, to have some happiness in her life even if it was for a fleeting moment.  

Mirabelle parked the car in front of a small store front and turned the car off.  Swiveling around, Mirabelle reached for her purse in the back seat and pulled it onto her lap before retrieving her cell phone.

“Alright.  Let me call this bitch and have her let us in.”

Bringing the phone up to her ear, Mirabelle rolled her eyes as she waited for her friend to pick up.  Through the silence of the car, Sansa could hear a woman’s voice answer on the other end.

“Hey girl. We’re here.  You wanna let us in or what?,” Mirabelle giggled into the phone.  Clearly, they had the same sort of friendship Sansa had had with Myranda. 

After flipping her phone closed, Mirabelle turned towards Sansa and let out a girlish squeal. 

“I’m so excited for her to meet you! Just to warn you, Arianne’s got the face of an angel, but talks like a sailor.”

Sansa let out a laugh as she undid her seatbelt.  Myranda Royce could put anyone to shame with the way she talked.  Sansa had gotten used to it and doubted Mirabelle’s friend could be much worse.   

As they met Arianne at the door of her boutique, Sansa realized Mirabelle hadn’t been kidding.  The woman did indeed have the face of an angel.  Arianne was petite, probably a good seven inches shorter than Sansa.  Her skin was a flawless olive tone and her hair fell to the middle of her back in thick, mocha colored waves.  Despite her petite frame, her body curved into a voluptuous hourglass shape. 

Sansa’s attention was immediately turned to the contents of Arianne’s boutique.  The back wall had been painted jet black, the other walls covered in Victorian-looking wall paper.  Antique tables, vanities, and chairs displayed the merchandise, which had a distinctly vintage flair to it.  The combination of a lace dress, snake-skin cowboy boots, turquoise and tiger’s eye jewelry was on display in the window and Sansa immediately fell in love.  It wasn’t something she would ever think to put together, but it worked and looked amazing besides. 

Suddenly, Sansa felt someone come up beside her and loop their arm in hers. 

“That would be gorgeous on you.  Take your clothes off and you can try it on.  I’m Arianne by the way.”

Sansa felt a slight blush emerging across her cheeks and she turned towards the petite woman whose sultry voice complimented her dark mystique.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Sansa,” she replied shyly with a polite smile before gesturing her hand around the shop in a sweeping motion. “I love your store.  Everything is so beautiful.”

With that, Arianne tossed her head back and laughed merrily, flashing pearly white teeth against deep mauve colored lips.  The woman turned slightly towards Mirabelle, who was beaming with something between amusement and pride. 

“Alright, she’s hot, she’s sweet, and she’s got a good eye for fashion.  Is your brother all over it or what?,” Arianne inquired with a devious smile as she cocked her head to the side and contemplated Sansa with her dark brown eyes.  

With her eyes widening, Sansa’s mouth fell open as she shot a bewildered stare at Mirabelle.  Shaking her head and rolling her eyes, Mirabelle plopped down on a red velvet upholstered love seat before beckoning Sansa to come sit next to her.

“Ignore her.  That’s what I do,” Mirabelle assured as she perused a variety of necklaces displayed on a candelabra which was placed on a tea table in front of her. 

Settling in a tufted leather arm chair across the tea table from them, Arianne motioned her head towards the front of the store where Thomas was standing outside the shop door with his hands resting on his hips. 

“What’s the deal with Rambo over there?,” Arianne jested with mischievousness sparkling in her dark eyes.  From the periphery of her vision, Sansa saw Mirabelle tense slightly at the question.  She didn’t know whether or not Mirabelle would give details, if she was even allowed to talk about the goings-on of the mafia family. 

“Shit’s been a little hot and heavy lately.  We needed an escort,” Mirabelle offered as she winked at Arianne. 

“Hmm.  Have you fucked him yet?,” Arianne inquired casually as she mindlessly studied her manicured fingernails.  Sansa stifled a shocked gasp.  Perhaps she had met someone who could put Myranda Royce to shame. 

“Wouldn’t he love that…,” Mirabelle giggled as she shook her head slowly, unfazed by her friend’s crudeness. “No I haven’t and I don’t think I will.” 

Amused, Sansa sat quietly as she listened to Mirabelle and Arianne’s conversation continue on, rambling from fashion to gossip to sex and everything in between.  Smiling contentedly, Sansa had needed this; she needed to be around women, even if she couldn’t necessarily relate to everything they were talking about. 

The next few hours were spent trying on clothes from the shop; Mirabelle and Arianne had had a field day of dressing Sansa up in anything and everything they could find.  Apparently, Sansa was like a baby doll to them as they fawned over all the combinations of clothing they could put on her while they giggled like little girls.  After awhile, Arianne ordered in lunch from a Thai restaurant in town and the conversation continued as they gathered around the tea table, enjoying their lunch and each other’s company. 

Sansa sensed an acuteness in Arianne’s perception.  The woman had asked few questions of Sansa, seemingly intuiting that those questions were either off limits or best avoided altogether.  Sansa hadn’t minded and rather enjoyed just listening as Arianne and Mirabelle told her stories about the shenanigans they had gone through together.  When the conversation came to lull, Sansa felt Arianne’s eyes settle on her in a steady gaze.  Lifting her eyes over her pad thai, Sansa clanked her chopsticks together nervously as she suddenly became aware that Arianne’s eyes flashed with curiosity. 

“So, Sansa.  Riddle me this.  How did you meet Mirabelle?”

Pulling in a deep breath to compose herself, Sansa gently placed her chopsticks down and flashed a glance towards Mirabelle who was biting her lower lip and staring down at her curried noodles. 

“Through her brother, Sandor,” Sansa offered slowly. Technically, it was true, but taking a cue from Mirabelle, Sansa forwent some details and settled for vague ambiguity as her M.O.

Settling back and crossing her arms over her chest, Arianne nodded and gave an intrigued smile.

“Interesting.  So are you and him…” Arianne let her voice trail off, enticing Sansa to finish the sentence for her and fill in the blanks. 

“Are we what?,” Sansa finished, feigning ignorance.  She knew what Arianne was getting at, but she wasn’t willing to spare details if she didn’t have to.  Not that there were any details to spare.  It wasn’t like anything was happening between her and Sandor. 

“Is he fucking you? Are you dating? Are you friends?,” Arianne ambled through the possibilities waiting for a response from Sansa, some gesture that indicated where her dynamic with Sandor lay.  Sansa swallowed hard.  She didn’t fall into any of those categories with Sandor.  Now that she thought about it, she didn’t quite know what they were.  They weren’t really anything.  Maybe capturer and hostage? No, that didn’t sound right and she sure as hell wasn’t going to offer that to Arianne.  Sensing Sansa’s hesitance and confusion, Mirabelle broke in, flashing a protective glance towards Sansa before narrowing her eyes at Arianne.  

“Hey now, come on.  She’s just a kid,” Mirabelle chided before delving into her noodles once more. 

Dropping her chopsticks down, Arianne lifted her hands up in the air before shifting slightly and leaning forward towards Sansa.

“You’re what? 18?,” the woman asked blankly. 

“Almost. I’ll be 18 in a week or so.” Sansa had almost forgotten her birthday was quick approaching.  A few weeks ago, the prospect of turning 18 and officially being an adult had excited Sansa.  Now the luster was gone.  She already felt like an adult, having endured more in the past week than most people endure in a lifetime.  For all intents and purposes, Sansa was an adult in experience if not age.

“Hmm, so you’re no child.  Have you ever been with a man?,” Arianne pushed, cocking her head to the side and studying Sansa with a devious smile on her full lips.    

“I haven’t….no,” Sansa replied abruptly.  Even if she had been with a man, she wasn’t sure she really wanted to talk about. She could hardly think about sex without blushing like a maniac.   

“Never? Like ever?,” Arianne squealed out with wide eyes and a gaping smile. Apparently, the thought was foreign to her; to be almost 18 and still a virgin. 

“No. Never.” Sansa shook her head with a nervous smile.  She hoped Thomas hadn’t heard their exchange.  It was one thing to talk about this sort of thing with girls, but to have men around, especially one of Sandor’s men, made her feel as though she might die of embarrassment. 

“Not anything? Not a hand job or a boob feel up?,” Arianne cooed, leaning forward from her seated position with excitement. 

Giving a shy smile and a laugh, Sansa shook her head before letting her eyes flicker up towards Mirabelle and Arianne, who were both smiling at her.   

“Damn girl.  You’re cute as fuck,” Arianne laughed as she shook her head, lifting her bottle of ice tea to her lips before taking a swig. 

“I’m sayin’!,” Mirabelle interjected with a laugh as she wrapped an arm around Sansa’s shoulders. “She’s a sweetheart.  Not a bunch of floozies like us.” At that Arianne lifted her bottle of tea up in the air to raise a toast, giggling all the while. 

Once the laughing had subsided, Mirabelle sat up straight and placed her palms on the tea table, her face setting in a mask of seriousness and her voice lowering to a smoky tone.   

 “Alright, alright.  Girls, I suggest we bring out the cards.”

“The cards?,” Sansa pondered out loud as she cast a sideways glance at Mirabelle. 

“Have you ever had your tarot cards read, Sansa?,” Arianne cut in, her eyes lighting up. 

While her grandmother was a mistress of the occult, the woman never dabbled with tarot cards.  Apparently, she had had a bad reading once, a reading that scared the hell out of her and she never messed with the tarot cards again.   

“No. No I haven’t,” Sansa replied hesitantly, swallowing down a flush of fear she felt bubbling up from within her gut.  Sensing her trepidation, Mirabelle leaned in towards Sansa and offered a reassuring smile.

“Arianne, despite her whorishness, is actually a very talented tarot card reader. It’s nothing to be afraid of.  The cards just mirror the energies and influences we currently have in our life.  They can offer tons of insight and it’s actually a lot of fun.” 

Shifting her gaze from Mirabelle to Arianne, Sansa bit her lip.  If this was going to be anything like having her astrological chart interpreted, she wasn’t sure she was up for it.  Folding her hands on the table, Arianne gave a soft smile to Sansa before tilting her head to the side and lowering her voice.

“Here’s what we can do.  I’ll do a reading for Mirabelle.  You’ll see how it goes and get a feel for what it’s like.  Mirabelle is right; the tarot mirrors us and simply reflects things that are already present in our life.  It forces us to look at these influences, understand how they affect us, and offers us a chance to see what the outcome of a situation might be like if we continue on the path we’re currently on. 

Keep in mind our lives are a balance between fate and free will.  At any point, we can change the outcome of a situation simply by adjusting our behaviors and attitudes.  Just because the cards show us something, doesn’t mean that it has to be.  We are still creatures of free will.  If you’re not into it or if it doesn’t feel right for you, then by all means you do not have to have a reading done.  As a card reader, I have a responsibility to make sure you understand that you may not like what the cards are telling you and I won’t lie to you about what the cards are saying.  Again, no matter the outcome, free will is always a factor in our lives and the cards simply display what is likely to happen if we remain on our current path.”

With that, Arianne nodded her head and Mirabelle began a slow clap, smiling devilishly at her friend.

“Damn girl.  Gettin’ all philosophical and shit,” Mirabelle taunted as she exhaled a laugh. 

Sansa smiled and nodded her head, feeling more assured now that Arianne talked her through the process.  Beyond that, the woman seemed to know what she was talking about and was clearly experienced with this form of divination.  Taking Sansa’s smile as approval to continue on, Arianne pushed herself to her feet and tiptoed over the take out boxes before disappearing behind the cashier’s counter.  After fumbling around in her purse, Arianne reemerged with a black bundle and paced back towards the tea table. 

Setting the bundle on the table, Sansa realized it was a black scarf that had been wrapped around a deck of tarot cards.  Slowly and with deft fingers, Arianne unwrapped the deck and gently smoothed out the black scarf and laid the deck of cards down on top of it. 

“This is the Rider-Waite deck,” Arianne started, her entire demeanor seemingly hardening and becoming less jovial and more serious. “It is the original deck that become popular in the western world.  It is my personal favorite because the imagery and symbolism is retained.  Novelty decks have the tendency to lose a lot of the symbolism for sake of artistic flair.”

Sansa nodded her head as she watched Arianne hand the cards to Mirabelle to shuffle.  Mirabelle’s eyes softly closed as she swayed ever so slightly back and forth in her seated position.  When she opened her eyes once more, a peaceful serenity had enveloped her form.  Her eyes were soft and a small smile pulled on the corners of her lips.  For many moments, Mirabelle and Arianne remained quiet as if both silently meditating on some thought or personal mantra. 

Sansa watched in silence and curious fascination as Mirabelle laid out four cards face down in a diamond shape.  One by one, she flipped over the cards, stopping at each and studying the imagery.  With each card, Mirabelle and Arianne would exchange a look; sometimes smiling at each other, sometimes shaking their heads, but always seeming to communicate without really saying a word.  Clearly, they were _both_ very experienced with reading the cards.  Mirabelle’s spread did not require much explaining because she already knew the meanings for most of the cards. 

Steadying her gaze on Sansa, Arianne smiled softly and once more lowered her voice.

“If you do this long enough, you’ll start to notice certain cards constantly come up for certain people.  Mirabelle consistently gets cards within the suit of pentacles, in particular the page of pentacles and the two of pentacles.”

Sighing, Mirabelle nodded her head and shrugged her shoulders before turning towards Sansa.

“I suppose I could get worse cards.  I just fucking hate that two of pentacles guy, he’s so tricky!”

At that, Arianne giggled and nodded her head. Sansa let out a nervous laugh, not understanding what the two of pentacles were or why they were so tricky.  As the laughter died down, Arianne regarded Sansa once more with a reassuring glance.

“So what do you think? Do you want your cards read?”

Sansa furrowed her brow at the question.  Mirabelle’s reading had been short and required only a small amount of insight from Arianne as Mirabelle seemed to know the cards rather well herself.  Sansa still wasn’t sure what to expect or even if she wanted to know what the Universe had in store for her.  Suddenly, Arianne reached out to Sansa and gently wrapped her small fingers around Sansa’s hand. 

“Remember, if you don’t want to, you don’t have to.  If you don’t have a particular question in mind, you could do a smaller spread, three or four cards.  Since you’re new to this, I could do a three card spread. We could do a past, present, future reading.  One card will represent what you’ve gone through to get here, one card for what you’re currently going through, and one for what the future holds should you remain on the path you’re on. Does that sound okay to you?”

Sansa bit her lip as she lifted her eyes towards Mirabelle who smiled gently in return and gave a nod of her head.  Sucking in a deep breath, Sansa lifted her eyes to Arianne and slowly nodded her head.  Clapping her hands together, Arianne gave a little bounce in her seat before excitedly handing Sansa the deck of cards. 

Just as Mirabelle had done, Sansa shuffled the deck between her hands.  She had been instructed to take her time, to not rush the process but to let all thoughts escape her mind and focus only on ensuring her energy poured into the cards.  Whenever if _felt_ right, Sansa could then put the cards down.  Doing as she was told, Sansa mindlessly let the cards fall from one hand to the other, each time a thought popped into her head she ushered it away on deep breaths.  Finally, and without her permission, the cards dropped from her hands.  With shock and confusion, Sansa looked down at them splayed across the tea table. 

Arianne gave a little laugh before instructing Sansa to cut the deck three ways and pull one card from each of the three portions.  Once more, Sansa was advised to take her time with her selections.  With each portion of the deck, Sansa splayed the cards out in front of her and let her eyes slowly roam over them.  Without fail, there was one card that seemed to hold her attention more than the others and her eyes seemed to settle on the card with each pass.  Finally when she had selected her cards and laid them face down in front of her on the black scarf, Sansa gave a satisfied nod of the head. 

Holding her hands out palm up, Arianne motioned towards the cards. 

“Alright.  Turn over the first card and I want you to take a moment and study it.  Look at the setting, look at the people on the card, if there are people.  What do they look like? What are they doing? Do they look happy, sad, scared? What feeling do you get from the card? What images do you see and what do those images mean to _you_ personally?”

With that Arianne sat back and watched as Sansa flipped over the first card slowly. 

 _XVI. The Tower_  

Sansa lifted her eyes to Arianne.  If the woman had a reaction to the card, Sansa could not decipher it through the stoic façade that was her face. 

“Talk me through it,” Arianne offered as she stared blankly at the card. Sansa followed suit and let her eyes roam over the card.

“The sky is black.  There are clouds.  There’s a white tower that seems to extend high into the sky. A lightning bolt is striking the tower and now the tower is on fire.  Two people are falling from the tower. They look scared.”  Sansa shook her head and turned towards Arianne as she shrugged her shoulders.  She didn’t know what it meant, people falling from a tower during a storm.

“This is a card of great upheaval.  It is a card of sudden and devastating change.  Some interpret the tower as the Tower of Babel.  The card that precedes this one is the Devil, which represents excess and indulgence in vice.  Therefore, this card is one which invokes the idea of ‘the mighty have fallen.’ Notice the lightning bolt comes from the heavens above.  This means that the changes occurring are initiated by the Universe.  If we don’t change our lives, the Universe will.  The people on the card are obviously wealthy, as we can tell by their manner of dress. One of them wears a crown and there is also a crown at the top of the tower.  This again symbolizes material wealth.”

Sansa stared at the card once more and felt her heart beating faster before lifting her eyes to Arianne.

“This card represents my past.  Recent past?,” Sansa inquired nervously. 

“Yes, more than likely it is the recent past,” Arianne replied softly. 

“So there are these people.  They are rich, obviously the upper class,” Sansa started as if seeing the card clearly for the first time. “Perhaps they’re at a party.  The tower, or maybe their mansion, is on fire.  They’re afraid.  If they’re falling from their tower, then they obviously know they might not live to see tomorrow.  Either way, all they know for sure is that their lives will change and it will be a devastating and abrupt change.” 

Sansa shifted her stare towards Mirabelle whose eyes had widened to the size of saucers and mouth was hanging open.  Clearly, the first card represented what had transpired at the Royce party.  In fact, the card was sickening to look at, as if someone had snapped a picture of the horror that ensued that night and painted it on a 3”x2” card. 

With an uncomfortable silence filling the room, Arianne cleared her throat and gently urged Sansa to move on to the next card. 

_Nine of Swords._

Sansa shook her head and once more felt her breath beginning to quicken.  The image on the card was disturbing and again was a perfect image of how Sansa felt. 

“A person is sitting up in bed.  Their face is cradled in their hands, almost as if they are crying.  Behind them the wall is black and above them hangs nine swords. They are obviously very upset.  They look like they were maybe trying to sleep, but woke up crying.”

Reaching out underneath the tea table, Mirabelle took Sansa’s hand in her own and gave a gentle squeeze. Arianne nodded her head.

“Yes, this is a card of sorrow and loss.  This is someone who is in a great deal of pain.  The nines relate back to the ninth card of the major arcana, which is the Hermit.  The Hermit is a card of isolation, whether self-induced or forced upon us by our circumstances.  The Nine of Swords reflects this sort of isolation.  This card represents someone who is wracked with fear, worries, and doubt.  The swords that loom over the head of the person on this card represent those fears.  Swords correspond to the element of air, which are thoughts and ideas.  In the case of this card, swords are fears that manifest in our minds.  Have you ever lain awake at night, tossing and turning over things in your head because you cannot shut your mind off? Well, this is that card. Our fears cut through us like knives, or in this case, like swords.”

Sansa swallowed hard and nodded her head.  Despite Arianne’s eloquent explanation, Sansa hadn’t needed it.  Indeed, the woman on the card was her; lying in bed at night, crying to herself in the darkness at all she had lost.  Biting back the tears, Sansa took a deep breath and looked away. 

“Sansa, baby girl, we can stop if you want to,” Mirabelle assured as she stroked her fingers through Sansa’s hair and considered her with worried eyes. 

Exhaling in a slow breath, Sansa lifted her tear filled eyes to Arianne.

“The next card is my future, is it not?,” Sansa asked.  She knew what her past was and she knew what her present situation was.  Her cards in those places seemed to mirror those situations a little too well.  What she didn’t know was where she was going from here. 

Arianne gave a silent nod and a slow blink of her dark eyes.  With shaking hands, Sansa turned over the final card, the card which apparently foretold her future. 

_Six of Swords._

Another swords card, Sansa was beginning to hate them as much as Mirabelle hated her two of Pentacles.   

This card was different and Sansa felt herself breathe a slight sigh of relief before beginning with her interpretation of the imagery.

“There is a woman on a boat. Her face is obscured.  Six swords are in the boat with her. There is a child with red hair sitting next to her.  A tall man with black hair is ferrying her across water towards land in the distance.”

Sansa watched as Arianne and Mirabelle exchanged knowing smiles before Arianne leaned forward, her eyes glowing with delight.

“This is a card of change, but not the devastating change of the Tower.  The child in the boat can represent innocence or purity.  The woman is cloaked because she is in mourning.  She has lost something dear to her and is moving away from a dangerous or harmful situation towards a promising future.  The water to the right of the boat is unsettled and the water to the left is calm, representing that fact that she’s leaving behind a difficult situation.  The man ferrying her across is in control of where she goes. This might be divine intervention sweeping in to initiate these changes. 

The number six represents a resolution to a problem.  Your troubles that you’re currently dealing with will be resolved, but the process will be difficult and certainly you have a rough road ahead of you. But that’s not the end of it.  The six of swords and the Tower showed up in the same spread.  This is significant.  They are both cards of change.  The changes in your life are enormous and permanent, but do not necessarily have to be a bad thing. The grey sky in the six of swords represents uncertainty, this future may not be certain.”

Studying the cards laid out before her, Sansa leaned forward and picked each of them up, contemplating the imagery and trying to piece it all together.  Of course her future card would be uncertain.  Just like her seventh house was damned. In Mirabelle’s cards, the sky had been bright yellow, the flowers and trees were green, the people looked happy and alive. In her own cards, the sky was painted in black and grey hues, the faces of the people were either obscured or were plastered with looks of terror. 

Sansa’s contemplation was broken as she heard Mirabelle gasp beside her.

“Fuck! We have to go.  It’s almost 4:30.  Jesus Christ! I didn’t realize we had been here so long. And goddamnit! I have to get gas too.” Mirabelle hurriedly pushed herself to her feet and pulled Sansa up with her, the tarot cards tumbling to the floor as she let go of them. 

Snatching up her purse, Mirabelle gave Arianne a hug and a kiss on the cheek before taking Sansa by the hand and damn near dragging her out of the store.  Sansa had barely been able to get out a ‘goodbye’ or ‘nice to meet you’ before she hopped into the passenger seat of Mirabelle’s car. 

Sansa watched as Mirabelle tapped on the window of Thomas’ vehicle and rotated her wrist in a motion for him to roll down the window. 

“Sleeping on the job, eh?,” Mirabelle laughed as she leaned forward, hovering in the space of the open window.  “I’ve gotta stop and get gas on the way home.  Then we need to book it back.”

Thomas silently nodded his head before rolling up his window and waited for Mirabelle to pull out of her parking space before he followed along behind her.  Sansa stared out the window, lost in her thoughts and contemplating the tarot cards.  Arianne had been spot on; the cards mirrored everything that had been happening to her in the last week.  However it was the third card, the Six of Swords, that vexed Sansa.  According to Arianne, the card represented loss, but there was a silver lining to it; perhaps she would get to go home even if home wasn’t what it used to be. 

Mirabelle pulled off of the main road and into a gas station before parking the car next to a gas pump.  Turning towards Sansa, Mirabelle pulled down her sunglasses and flashed a sympathetic stare.

“Are you doing okay? The tarot cards didn’t freak you out too much, did they?”  Sansa could hear the concern splintering Mirabelle’s voice.  Sansa bit back a laugh.  While she found Mirabelle’s concern for her sweet and unexpected considering her circumstances, Sansa was also beginning to feel like some sort of delicate flower that everyone felt the need to shelter. 

Shaking her head, Sansa offered Mirabelle a small smile.

“I’m fine.  Really, I am.” Sansa was beginning to believe it was true.  She figured if she told herself enough times that she was okay, maybe, just maybe, she would start to believe it and others would too.

“Alright, I just wanted to make sure,” Mirabelle conceded before pulling the keys from the engine and turning once more to Sansa.  “Would you mind pumping the gas while I run to the bathroom? I have to pee like a mother fucker.” By the way Mirabelle was bouncing up and down in her seat, Sansa understood she really had to go.  Giggling, Sansa nodded her head and stepped from the car.

After situating the gas pump, Sansa leaned against the side of Mirabelle’s car and nervously shifted her stare around the gas station parking lot.  It was much different than the gas station Sansa and Podrick had pulled into a little less than a week ago.  However, Sansa couldn’t shake the feeling she got standing underneath the gas station overhang. It was the worst kind of déjà vu. 

Closing her eyes, Sansa let her head fall back to the side of the car until she heard the shuffling sound of someone coming up next to her.

“Sansa.”  The man’s voice felt like an electric shock to her body. 

Snapping her eyes open as she gasped, Sansa turned in the direction of the voice as she began heaving for breaths. 

Standing before her was Nestor Royce, Myranda’s father, and the man looked like absolute hell.  Donning a pair of faded red shorts and a ratty blue T-Shirt, Mr. Royce looked like he hadn’t shaved since the night of the party and seemed to have aged considerably in such a short amount of time.  Judging by the dark purple bags under his eyes, Nestor hadn’t gotten much sleep over the past week either. 

With her mouth opening and closing, Sansa felt her throat go dry and her hands begin to tremble.  Part of her wanted to throw herself at his feet and tell him to take her away from here. The other part of her wanted to know immediately what happened to her mother, to Myranda, to Mrs. Royce, to her father.  Shocked into disbelief, Sansa could only shake her head and stare blankly at the man, the words refusing to form on her tongue.  Stepping towards her, Nestor broke the silence. 

“Oh Sansa.  Oh God, Sansa.”  Mr. Royce’s voice quivered as he bit back tears and pulled her into an embrace.  He smelled like sweat and dirt, as if he hadn’t bothered to bathe himself since the night of the party. 

Pulling away from her, Nestor shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, his hands trembling almost as bad as Sansa’s.

“Your parents and I have been looking for you.  Sansa, we’ve missed you so much. So, so much.” Nestor handed Sansa the paper as tears streamed down his dirty face. 

She felt as though she were traveling through a thick haze, her vision seemed to blur at the edges and time seemed to slow down to a halt. 

“My parents? Both of them?,” Sansa heard herself say although the words came out low and slow, as if being played back on a recording.

“Yes. Both of them.  Your mother is alive and misses you so much,” Nestor replied as he motioned his head towards the paper in her hand.  Sansa felt her knees buckle as she stumbled forward and threw her arms out to catch herself on the side of Mirabelle’s car. 

Slowly, Sansa unfolded the paper and felt an icy grip of horror stifle her breath as her eyes darted over the missing person’s poster.

 

 

 

Missing

**Sansa Stark**

Portland, OR

DOB: 07/12/1994

Red Hair Blue Eyes

5'9"           130 lbs.

Last seen: 06/30

If anyone has any information,

please call the Portland Police

department

In the middle was Sansa’s senior picture, the picture her mom had picked out as her favorite even though Sansa thought she looked like a child in it.  With tears streaming down her face, Sansa sucked in a shaky breath as her hands trembled uncontrollably. 

“Do you want to go home, Sansa?  Let’s go home.  Let me take you home,” Nestor broke in as he pulled lightly on her forearm. 

It was such a simple question and Sansa could have sworn she already knew the answer to it.  Of course she wanted to go home.  Of course she did, why wouldn’t she?  But something didn’t feel right.  Something at the pit of her stomach was gnawing on her and Sansa was at a loss for what it was.  Mirabelle was inside the gas station and any minute she would be coming out.  What would she think if Sansa just disappeared without a word? But then again, she would be going home.  She could see her mother once more and her father too. 

“Yes.  I want to go home,” Sansa replied on a tremulous whisper.  “I just…please do you have pen or something I can write with?”

Nodding eagerly, Nestor shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out a black ballpoint pen.  Taking the pen from his hand, Sansa pressed the missing person’s poster up against the window of Mirabelle’s car and scribbled a note on the blank side.  Folding up the piece of paper, Sansa stopped for a moment, hesitating as she tucked the note underneath the windshield wiper.  Why was this suddenly so difficult? Once more, her head was screaming at her to go, to take this opportunity, but something else was tugging on her, making this more complicated than it needed to be and that scared Sansa more than she could have ever imagined. 

Puzzling out her trepidation, Nestor wrapped one arm around her waist and pulled her away from Mirabelle’s car.  Placing one foot in front of the other, Sansa mindlessly followed Mr. Royce towards a silver SUV that was parked behind Mirabelle’s car.  Feeling a strange sense of guilt, Sansa swiveled her head over her right shoulder and back towards the gas station.  She had half expected to see Mirabelle standing there, watching as Sansa was being ushered away.  However, Mirabelle wasn’t behind her and Sansa couldn’t tell if that made her feel better or worse.

Nestor opened the back door and helped Sansa in before climbing in after her.  With her blood running cold, Sansa snapped her head towards the front seat of the SUV.  Sitting in the driver and passenger seat of the SUV were two men Sansa didn’t recognize.  Before she could scream or get out of the car or ask what was going on, Nestor reached around and covered her mouth and nose with a white cloth, a cloth that was saturated with something that smelled an awful lot like a chemical she had once used in chemistry lab. 

“I’m sorry, Sansa.  I didn’t want to do this,” Nestor whispered in her ear before her vision was filled with black.  

 

 

 

* * *

“Well, what kind of food does she like?,” Bronn asked, lifting a balled fist to rest beneath his chin as he stared up towards the ceiling in thought. 

Sandor drummed his fingers against the top of his desk, swiveling side to side in his plush office chair.  It was just dinner.  Granted, he had a lot of talk to her about, it was still just dinner.  He had asked Ryello, Alberto’s personal chef, to stick around and prepare the meal.  The man had agreed, but requested two hours for preparation and asked that Sandor decided what he wanted served no later than 5:00pm if dinner was going to be at 7:00pm.

Having been in meetings with his men for the majority of the afternoon, Sandor hadn’t had much of a chance to think about it.  Besides, he wasn’t good at this sort of thing.  He was a meat and potatoes kind of guy.  He didn’t know a damn thing about what Sansa enjoyed in terms of food.  Well, besides one thing. 

“Lemons. Mirabelle told me,” Sandor confided as he shrugged his shoulders.  It wasn’t much, but it was a starting point.   

“Are you fucking serious?,” Bronn chuckled as he cocked his head to the side with an amused grin. “You’re just going to serve some cut up lemons and be done with it?”

Sandor rubbed his face with the palms of his hands.  Bronn was the last person on earth he should be talking to about this.  He really needed to be asking Mirabelle, but she was off busying herself with something. 

“Are _you_ fucking serious?,” Sandor replied as he rested his elbows on the desk and ran his fingers through his long, raven colored hair. “She likes things with lemons _in them_.  Lemons in her water, lemons in her cake, that sort of thing. Not just lemons by themselves, you idiot.”

“Well, shit.  Then just tell Ryello to make a bunch of lemon stuff,” Bronn offered as he settled back in his seat, propping his feet up on the edge of Sandor’s desk while resting the back of his head in the palms of his hands. 

“I don’t want it to be overkill. I don’t know how much she likes lemons. Maybe she doesn’t like lemons in everything.” Sandor felt like a tool having this conversation.  He wanted to do something nice for Sansa, but god damn, it had turned into an ordeal trying to figure out how to incorporate lemons into food. 

“You could, I don’t know, just ask her. Or fucking google ‘lemon stuff,’ or go to the Food Network website.  Shit, man! I don’t know why you’re asking me about this,” Bronn replied casually, closing his eyes and sighing deeply in exasperation.  

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Sandor rasped as he glanced towards the clock. _4:42_ it read back to him.  He had 18 minutes to figure this shit out and apparently Bronn was going to be no help at all.   _Where the hell is Mirabelle when I need her?_

“Sandor, how did it come to be that you and I are fucking sitting here talking about some goddamn lemons?” Bronn’s voice quivered with laughter as he spoke, clearly amused that two mobsters were sitting around stressing over a citrus fruit beloved by a certain red-headed girl. 

Suddenly pulling his legs from the desk, Bronn sat up and snapped open his eyes as he pointed an index finger at Sandor. 

“Wait! Wait, wait, wait.  You’re tying yourself up in knots over whether or not she’ll like what you’re having the chef make for dinner. I know what this is. I _know_ what this is.”

Sandor felt his mouth beginning to twitch at the corners as it always did when he was either irritated or exhilarated.  And Bronn certainly didn’t exhilarate Sandor.  Crossing his arms about his chest defensively, Sandor steeled himself against the onset of what he imagined would be almost the same conversation he had had with Mirabelle earlier today.  Bronn was going to bust his chops about Sansa and Sandor was going to have to find a way to deflect it. 

Before Bronn could set in, Sandor’s office door flew open and Mirabelle came running in, mascara streaming down her cheeks as they intermingled with tears.  Thomas, Alberto, and four of Sandor’s street bosses followed Mirabelle into the room.  None of the men spoke a word and instead stared at Sandor, their faces white as sheets and their eyes filled with dread as Mirabelle approached him.   

“She’s gone.” Mirabelle could hardly get the words out as she gasped for breaths between sobs.  Cradling her face in her hands, Mirabelle’s chest heaved as she made tiny squeaking sounds with each labored exhale of breath.   

“Who’s gone?,” Bronn murmured dumbfounded until it finally hit him and his eyes went wide.  Sandor clenched the arms of his chair so hard he thought that they might snap in half.  He knew exactly who Mirabelle was talking about. Pulling her hands away from her face, Mirabelle damn near threw herself in front of his chair, falling to her knees as she pleaded with him. 

“I’m so sorry.  I’m _so_ sorry. I didn’t listen.” Shaking her head furiously, Mirabelle was wracked with another wave of sobs.  Sandor felt his blood boiling hot through his veins.  His skin was instantaneously beginning to coat with the dull sheen of sweat.  With a jolt of rage, Sandor shot from his chair, sending Mirabelle falling back away from him with eyes widened in fear. 

“What happened?,” he seethed through clenched teeth towards his men.  Mirabelle was a fucking mess, blubbering at his feet through erratic sobs.  Despite this, Mirabelle lifted herself to stand and timidly answered his question although her quivering words were interjected with hiccupping gasps for air. 

“Sansa was with me.  I only went in to pay for gas and when I came out she was gone.” Sandor bore through Mirabelle with a stare that intimated he might murder her in this moment.  Shrinking away from him, his sister set in with sniffling sobs once more. 

“Who the _fuck_ went with them?,” Sandor shouted as he pounded a fist hard against his desk. He had only needed to scan the faces of the room to know who it was.  Thomas looked as though he might faint.  The man’s eyes were wide and his skin was ashen.  Sighing deeply, the man stepped forward and tentatively lifted his eyes to meet Sandor’s irate glare.  At least the man had the balls to look him in the eye. 

“I did, boss.  I got caught up at a red light when I followed Mirabelle to the gas station, but I saw the car Sansa got into. I think it was Nestor Royce she was with.”

Unable to compose himself much longer, Sandor’s fury erupted as he swung one arm swiftly and heavily across his desk, sending papers, pens, the desk lamp, and all the other contents soaring in a hundred different directions towards the floor. 

“You _think_ it was Nestor Royce?! You fucking _think_ it was?! God fucking damn it you son-of-a-bitch.  Did you _think_ to follow them?” In a blind rage, Sandor flew towards Thomas as his words bellowed deafeningly throughout the room.  

He hadn’t known how or when, but Alberto and Bronn were on Sandor faster than he could blink an eye, pulling him away from Thomas who was hyperventilating as he fell to the floor.

With one solid tug, Sandor pulled free from Alberto and Bronn, sending the two men to stumble backwards as he flew towards Thomas once more. Sandor lifted the man to his feet and wrapped one of his large hands around Thomas’ skinny neck.

“What the fuck do you mean she got into a car?,” Sandor screamed as he shoved Thomas into a bookshelf, sending a few books to go careening from the shelf and towards the floor.  Gasping for breath, Thomas shook his head, indicating that he couldn’t breathe.

Sandor dropped the man to the floor and felt his breaths coming quick and ragged as he paced furiously about the room. His burning rage was seeping out of every pore and making him feel as though he was losing his god damn mind.  Hesitantly, Mirabelle stepped forward and handed Sandor a folded piece of paper. Shooting Mirabelle a fuming glare as he snatched it from her hand, Sandor hurriedly unfolded the paper, almost ripping it to shreds in the process.

 

 

 

_I’m sorry, Mirabelle._

_I have to go home._

_Please tell Sandor that_

_I’m sorry._

_Sansa_

He didn’t want to believe that she had written it.  He wanted to tell himself that someone else had written it, but the bubbly, swooping handwriting had seemed like it belonged to Sansa.  If that were the case, then it meant she had truly left on her own accord, entrusting herself to Nestor Royce.  If Sansa honestly thought Nestor was going to take her home, she was in for a horrible surprise.  _If she had only known sooner.  If I had gotten the fucking chance to tell her, she would have known to run from Nestor._

With his hands shaking in rage, Sandor crumpled the note and threw it to the floor before spanning the distance of the room in a matter of three strides.  Flinging the door of his office open, Sandor stepped out into the hallway, shouting over his shoulder towards anyone and everyone who was listening. 

“No one comes back, not a _fucking_ soul, until we find her. We’re leaving. NOW!”

Immediately his men sprung into action and quickly followed behind him.  Throwing himself into the front seat of his Mercedes, Sandor turned on the car and peeled out of the circle drive with a squealing shriek of the tires.  Glancing at the clock, he noticed it was now five o’clock on the dot. 

In the span of 18 minutes, Sandor’s life had gone from worrying about how to cook with lemons to worrying about a certain red-head who was in more danger in the hands of Nestor Royce than she could possibly imagine.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the support on this fic! So very appreciated.


	6. Chapter 6

**Gods and Monsters**

Chapter 6

* * *

 

“I’m not getting anything, boss.”

Sandor watched as Zulu tapped on the keyboard of his laptop, toggling between a command input screen and some fancy fucking piece of software that was apparently a piece of shit. 

Leaning up against the car, Sandor lifted his eyes to the western sky, watching as the sun hovered like a giant neon orb near the horizon.  They would be losing light soon and that meant many things, all of which irritated the hell out of Sandor.  Losing light meant they were losing time.  Losing time meant that they were getting closer to losing Sansa.  _And losing Sansa…_

He knew what that meant for her, but Sandor was only just beginning to grasp what that meant for him.

With a sudden flush of agitation, Sandor swiveled his body towards the open driver’s side door where Zulu was sitting in the driver’s seat, frantically trying his damndest to track Nestor Royce’s cell phone.  If the man had a smart phone-and he most likely did-they might be able to track it by infiltrating the GPS system.  It was a long shot, but it was all they had right now. 

Sandor felt his fingers slowly curl into balled fists before uncurling again.  He wanted to hit something or someone.  He wanted to rage.  He wanted to be moving again, to be doing something instead of sitting around on the side of the highway in the fucking desert. Apparently feeding off of his anxiety, Bronn was pacing in front of Sandor with one arm crossed tightly about his chest and the other lifted to his face as he rubbed his forehead. 

They had been at this for hours.  In an enraged panic and unable to think clearly, Sandor had sped from the Moriarti mansion and towards the gas station Mirabelle had been at with Sansa.  Cutting off cars on the highway as he raced there with his men frantically trying to keep up, Sandor tried to keep his cool, to remain focused, but with his heart damn near beating out of his chest and his thoughts a jumbled mess, he felt like everything around him was unraveling. 

When asked if he had any information, anything at all, about a silver SUV that had been at pump 6 around 4:35pm, the gas station attendant frantically shook his head and lifted his hands in the air.  Clearly, the man was terrified by the handful of Sandor’s men that had spilled into his store looking as though they were dogs put out for the hunt, ready for a fight and out for blood. 

After Go-Go had subtly pushed his shirt up, flashing the dull chromic sheen of a loaded handgun tucked in his pants, the gas station attendant had almost pissed his own pants as he flailed his arms and pointed towards the westbound portion of the highway whilst mumbling prayers in Spanish. 

Sandor didn’t trust the attendant’s information.  The man wanted to live and living meant telling Sandor and his men _something_ even if his memory was a little shaky.  The fucker probably didn’t even remember a silver SUV at pump 6 seeing as how he was stuffing his face with Twinkies and watching telenovelas when they burst into the gas station mini mart. 

In a fleeting moment of clarity given the situation, Sandor had instructed half of his men to head eastbound on the highway, the rest were to follow him westbound.  Speeding down the highway at a reckless rate of speed, Sandor had felt as though his heart might stop every time he spotted a silver SUV.  Having Bronn in the passenger seat with the window down and an assault rifle ready on his lap, Sandor would keep pace with each silver SUV they came up to, scrutinizing the passengers of the vehicle.  Apparently every fucking jackass in the bi-state area owned a silver SUV.  All they had come across were soccer moms carting around hordes of children, old men ten-and-two’ing the steering wheel going an even 55 mph down the highway, or sometimes the occasional car full of teenage kids out for a summer joy ride. 

With each passing minute, Sandor had felt his rage simmering towards explosion, like a pot of water ready to boil over any second now.  Sansa only had a thirty minute head start on him and by the way he was driving like a mad man, he had hoped they would have caught up with her.  After flying down the highway for an hour, Sandor had made the last minute decision to head north towards Portland.  It was a shot in the dark.  He had doubted Royce was taking Sansa back that way.  In fact, he was almost certain who Royce was taking her to, but he had no idea where Gregor was operating from these days. 

And with that thought alone, Sandor’s fury had hit its exploding point, his blood boiling through his veins and erupting as he cut across two lanes of traffic before slamming to a stop on the side of the highway.  The other cars carrying Sandor’s men screeched to a halt behind him, kicking up plumes of dirt and dust as they stopped inches short of colliding into one another.  Getting out of the car, Sandor had slammed the door shut and paced around to the other side of the car, leaning up against it as he rubbed the palms of his hand over his face and ran his fingers through his hair. 

His men had filed out of their vehicles and shifted from side to side as they silently awaited a command, an order, an explanation.  Even Bronn remained silent as he dropped his gaze towards the ground, offering nothing, no advice or sly humor in this moment where Sandor so desperately needed _something_.  But Bronn had nothing to offer Sandor and in turn Sandor had nothing for his men.  He didn’t even know where to begin or where to go from here.  He had nothing to go on besides a color and type of car and the frantic flailing of a gas station attendant that desperately wanted to keep his Twinkie and telenovela-filled life.  Sandor had lifted his eyes to his men, each of them staring back at him anxiously as if saying _‘tell us what to do next, boss.’_

With his breaths shortening to ragged huffs, Sandor had felt the anger and frustration coursing through him and knew he wouldn’t be able to stop it.  He hadn’t cared anymore in that moment, didn’t give a flying fuck if his men saw him lose his cool.  Seeing red, Sandor spun around towards the car and sent a rock-hard fist flying towards the car window, which immediately splintered under the brutal force.  It had felt great.  Better than great, fucking amazing, but he wanted more.  He could have gone on a destructive rage-fest if Bronn hadn’t stepped forward and taken him by the shoulders. 

“Zulu,” Bronn had started in with a low voice, a voice that was meant to not rock the boat of burning dynamite that was Sandor Clegane in that moment. “He can find Nestor Royce’s cell phone number and try to get a GPS signal from it.”    

Furrowing his brow, Sandor had nodded his head at that, eagerly latching on to the sliver of hope that was offered to him.  Zulu was young, one of the youngest members of the organization, but was brilliant when it came to technology.  Bronn had spotted the kid’s talent and recruited him as the resident techie, the go-to guy for anything that required explicit knowledge of computers, cell phones, video surveillance, and everything in between. 

Searching the faces of his men, Sandor realized he hadn’t even taken notice of which men had followed him west.  It would be his luck that Zulu had headed east under Marco’s lead.  Without missing a beat, Bronn had flipped open his phone and immediately called Zulu, telling him to book his ass back to where they were. 

While Sandor had furiously sped down the highway like a bat out of hell, Marco had led his group of men at a slower, more deliberate and less erratic pace.  Zulu was only an hour and a half away from them yet the time it took him to get to wherever the hell Sandor was had felt like an eternity.  With each passing minute they spent waiting and not moving, Sandor knew that Sansa was getting further away from him.  His opportunity to reach her in time was slowly slipping through his fingers like grains of sand passing through an hour glass.  There was nothing he could do about it and that frustrated him more than anything. 

Finally Sandor had seen a black car hovering on the horizon, seemingly traveling a great deal faster than the other cars around it.  _That’s him.  That better fucking be him._

Sure enough it had been Zulu and Gringo, another young recruit, flying down the highway towards them and about damn near passing them altogether.  When the driver side door swung open, Sandor watched as Zulu jumped out.  The boy wore his hair in a Mohawk and sported combat boots with camo shorts and a torn up Motörhead shirt.  By the looks of him, no one would know that the kid could infiltrate into damn near any system.  In fact, his parlor trick for skeptical mafia members was to hack into various government organization databases. 

“Nestor Royce.  We need to find where he is.  Can you do that?,” Sandor had demanded as Zulu approached him looking wide-eyed and nervous. 

“Yeah.  Let me get my laptop,” the kid had replied eagerly before pulling a bag from the trunk and plopping down in the driver’s seat. 

Immediately, Zulu had set in, typing away like a madman as his eyes darted around his laptop screen.  Sandor, along with the rest of his men, had fallen silent as they watched Zulu work.

“Nestor Royce.  Home address, 1216 Spring Hill Drive.  Date of birth, February 3rd, 1964.  Occupation, attorney with Royce & Thatcher Law Firm.  Is this the guy?”  At that, Zulu cocked an eyebrow and lifted his eyes to Sandor as his hands hovered over the keyboard. 

Sandor gave a curt nod as he crossed his arms about his chest.  He knew that address.  He had been to the man’s house after all.  And he doubted there was another Nestor Royce, attorney at law, running around Portland. 

Flashing a smug smile at Sandor’s nod, Zulu had set in again on the task at hand, his fingers furiously working his keyboard with a soft _‘tap, tap, tap’_ sound. 

“Alright.  I got his cell number.  He should have GPS on his device.  Now it’s a matter of finding this fucker on the grid.”

Apparently, finding fuckers on the grid was a much harder task than it sounded.  Zulu had been at it relentlessly for the past forty five minutes and Sandor was quickly losing his patience. 

Once more, he studied the western horizon before swiveling around towards Zulu, cursing under his breath in frustration at having to wait so fucking long for the kid to get something.  Considering Zulu could hack into the FBI and CIA databases, he couldn’t imagine it was so damn difficult to track a single cell phone.

“Still not getting anything. If his phone is off, completely shut down, then I’m not going to get anything.” Zulu huffed his exasperation.  Apparently he was quickly running out of avenues to pick up a signal from Nestor Royce’s phone. 

Shooting a burning glare towards the kid, Sandor felt his fingers curl towards his palms as he clenched his hands into fists once more.  He could throttle the kid in this moment.  Or Thomas.  Or Mirabelle.  Or anyone for that matter. 

Seeing Sandor’s flaring temper, Bronn stepped forward and leaned down so that his face hovered in front of Zulu’s. 

“Try again.  And if it doesn’t work, you’ll try again.  And if that doesn’t work, you know what you’ll be doing?” Bronn’s voice was deliberate and slow, each word drawn out as if to communicate the direness of the situation and how much was hinged on Zulu’s success at what he had been asked to do. 

Gulping hard and nodding his head solemnly, Zulu set in on his key board again, assaulting it with a flurry of rapidly moving fingers.   

Sandor turned towards the group of six men standing around the two other sedans, mindlessly kicking around dirt and staring off in the distance, probably bored out of their skulls.  A part of him wanted to send them off to Portland to look for Sansa there.  Even then he didn’t know where to tell them to go.  He hadn’t the faintest idea where Royce might take her.  Nestor sure as shit wasn’t going to drop her off at her home, have a nice chat with her father, and then be on his merry way.  And it’s not like he was going to take her back to 1216 Spring Hill Drive.  That place didn’t exist anymore. No, the man was taking her to Gregor.  Sandor could feel it in his bones and it was enough to drive him mad; that and the fact that there was nothing he could do right now.  His hands were tied, he had nothing to do, but wait; wait until Zulu got something, wait until Marco called him, wait until another plan dawned on him.   

By the time the sun had retreated behind the western horizon, the night had grown chilly as the wind whipped up around them.  The dull glow from Zulu’s lap top was illuminating the kid’s face in a soft iridescent orb of light.  With his brow folded as he focused, Zulu continued with his task, but the frequency of his keyboard taps had slowed and by the way he kept shaking his head, Sandor knew they had reached a dead end. 

His men knew it too.  Slowly, each of them slumped against the sides of the car as they quite literally twiddled their thumbs while they waited for an order from Sandor. 

Sandor set his stare off towards the distance, fighting like hell to stave off the feeling of defeat that was slowly creeping up from within him.  Shaking his head as if to knock away the frustration of possible failure, Sandor ran his fingers through his hair while he paced in front of the car. 

After a few moments, Bronn fell in next to his side and placed a hand heavily on his shoulder. 

“Sandor, it’s been five hours,” Bronn said almost gently as if Sandor wasn’t already aware of how much time had passed.  On the contrary, he had been _very_ much aware of how much time had passed since Sansa had disappeared with Nestor Royce. 

Another wave of defeat hit Sandor like a ton of bricks as he stopped dead in his tracks.  Thomas really only speculated that Sansa had gotten into a car with Nestor Royce.  For all he knew, Sansa may not even be with Nestor right now.  Maybe Thomas didn’t know what he saw.  Maybe like the gas station attendant he had convinced himself it was Nestor in his desperation to come up with something to pacify Sandor’s rage. 

With his doubts racking up, Sandor shook his head mindlessly as if that might clear the fog that was currently filling his mind.  Squeezing Sandor’s shoulder, Bronn stepped closer and lowered his voice so that the other men could not hear.

“Listen, we can go back, regroup there and Zulu can keep doing what he’s doing.  Just because we leave and go back to Moriarti’s doesn’t mean you’re giving up.”

Sandor declined his eyes to meet Bronn’s doleful stare and searched the man’s face. _‘…doesn’t mean you’re giving up.’_  You. You’re. As in, _you’re_ the only one that will continue this.  _You’re_ the one that’s keeping us out here in the fucking desert while we wait on something that very well may not come and if it does, it very well may be a dead end. 

Glancing towards Zulu, Sandor found that the kid was already looking at him.  With a forlorn half smile, Zulu shook his head, silently communicating that he still was getting nothing.

With that, Sandor yanked himself away from Bronn with a solid pull and wordlessly paced back towards his car, getting in and closing the door behind him without so much as a backwards glance.  From inside the car he could hear Bronn clap his hands together before addressing the men with defeat lacing his words.

 

 

“Alright.  Let’s pack it up.”   

* * *

As her eyes fluttered open slightly to meet the garish fluorescent lights hanging over head, Sansa wheezed a dry cough.  Her throat and nose felt like she had inhaled fire and that her sinuses were now scorched to oblivion.  With her tongue running along the roof of her mouth, she could faintly taste whatever had been saturated in Nestor Royce's handkerchief. 

_Diethyl ether.  It was diethyl ether._

The scent still lingered in her nose as Sansa remembered how she had taken chemistry lab with Podrick her senior year.  They had used ether for one of their labs.  The reaction had been an utter failure and smelled terrible, but her teacher, Mr. Hanson, had assured Sansa that the smell would eventually dissipate.  Four hours later, she could still smell the solvent on her as she sat at the table for supper; her hair, her clothes, her book bag all smelled like ether.  And it was a smell she wasn't likely to forget.  

Her head was pounding and she was certain her skull was going to split open.  The lingering effects of the ether, the piercing brightness of fluorescent lights, the dull thudding sound of her own heart beat loud in her ears were all contributing equally to the worst headache she had in recent memory.  

Taking a deep breath to clear the grogginess she felt, Sansa squeezed her eyes shut before reopening them, blinking quickly a few times to adjust her focus.  The floor beneath her was a dull grey color, like some sort of polished concrete.  By the way thin grey lines intersected the floor it was obvious it had once been covered in linoleum tiles which had been torn away.  Clumps of dust and dirt had accumulated in the corners of the room which was in desperate need of sweeping.  

Averting her eyes from the floor to the walls and ceiling, the entire room was in poor condition, like some sort of industrial office space that had been long forgotten.  Perhaps a once thriving business that had gone under when the economy had been run amok by greedy politicians and corporate fat cats, now the employees had cleared out, the building probably sat vacant for many years and was stripped of anything of value.  

The walls were painted a glossy white which faintly reflected the light of the paneled fluorescent lights above.  Judging by the grid of thin metal strips hanging overhead, a drop ceiling had once been hung, the ceiling tiles long gone with wires and pipes exposed in their absence.  

Sansa had awoken on her side, her body pressed against the cold concrete floor as her arms and legs were bound together at the wrists and ankles.  Slipping an elbow to the floor, Sansa squirmed until she could manage enough leverage and support to push herself up to a seated position.  Only then did she realize she wasn't alone in the room.  

Bound in the opposite corner of the room was Nestor Royce.  With his arms behind his back and encircling a support beam that extended from ceiling to floor, he seemed to be handcuffed by the wrists.  Sansa could hear a faint _'clanck, clanck'_ sound of metal brushing softly against metal.   Although the man was facing Sansa, his upper body was slumped over and his knees were pulled almost to his chest.  

_'I'm sorry, Sansa.  I didn't want to do this.'_

Like a mack truck slamming into the forefront of her mind, Sansa suddenly remembered his words to her; the words he had whispered in her ear as he pressed a diethyl ether saturated handkerchief to her face.  She had tried to scream and in doing so probably inhaled the rapidly vaporizing liquid. And now here he was- the man who only wore designer clothes, drove only the nicest of cars, lived only in a multi-million dollar neighborhood- looking as though he had been dragged through hell and back.  The Tower card from Arianne's reading flashed in Sansa's mind, the look of terror plastered to the faces of the people in the card as they fell from their tower of excess and wealth.

_How the mighty have fallen..._

It didn't make sense to her.  Why was he here? Why was he handcuffed to a pole in the same room as her?  And where exactly was she? 

The room was windowless and boasted only two doors; a large, industrial looking metal door across the room to the left of her and a smaller, wood framed door adjacent to Nestor Royce. It seemed to her that metal door led to the outside and the other led to some other part of the building.  The air in the room was humid and Sansa noticed that strands of her hair were sticking to the sides of her face which was covered with a thin layer of sweat.  By the way Nestor's skin was a bright shade of pink, he was hot too and probably had been in the room just as long as she had.  

But then she didn't know how long she had been here, how long she had been knocked out cold.  As if the dreadful reality of the situation bloomed before her, Sansa gasped before exhaling a deep breath.  She had no idea where she was, she had no idea who Nestor had given her away to, she had no idea if she had been passed out for an hour, a day.  She had left a note for Mirabelle, telling her that she was going home.  Mirabelle undoubtedly told her brother that Sansa left, but he may have resigned himself to let her go.  If he wished her no harm and wanted to see her happy, he may have thought it was best to let her go home.  Suddenly a thought crept across her mind and slid like an icicle to settle in her heart and beckon her blood to run cold.

_What if no one is coming for me?_

The thought elicited a familiar sting of hot tears to form in her eyes and spill over her cheeks.  How could she have been so stupid? Sansa lifted her tear-filled eyes to meet Nestor who was shifting slightly in his spot, swaying his upper body back and forth with labored groans. 

No, it wasn't stupidity.  She had trusted him.  Having grown up alongside his daughter, Nestor had been like a second father to her. And he was her father's friend, a man that her family had trusted with all their hearts.  Sansa felt a flush of anger color her cheeks and quicken her breaths. She had been stupid to trust him, but how was she supposed to know any better? Nestor Royce had taken advantage of her trust and used it as a means to some horrible end; a horrible end for both her  _and_  him.  

Probably feeling her tear-filled eyes burning into him, Nestor's head bobbed up slowly as he struggled to lift his gaze to her.  His right eye was a mess of purple and blue bruises which were just beginning to emerge.  The top of his forehead was crusted with dried blood from a deep gash that was there.  Scrutinizing his disheveled form, Sansa was only now noticing the bloody gashes, colored bruises, and raised bumps that were littering his body.  He looked as though he had been mercilessly beaten within an inch of his life, but the assault had been stopped short.  

Sansa felt her body begin to tremble with a deep rooted fear.  If they had done this to Nestor, what were they going to do to her? Another gush of tears spilled from her eyes as Sansa bit her lip to cease its quivering.  Letting her eyes drop to the floor, Sansa gasped for air.  She felt like the walls were closing in on her, the room felt sticky and hot and yet her blood was pumping cold through her veins.  She could scarcely breathe, or so it felt.  Her lungs burned with each sobbing intake of breath and each exhale manifested as a mewling sound.  

"Sansa..." Nestor's voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scratching against metal.  The way her name sounded on his ragged breath made her want to hurl.  She loved her name, the subtle humming sound it elicited as it rolled off the tongue.  But the way it passed his lips was sickening. 

“Sansa, please don’t cry.  Please,” Nestor pleaded with her as he set his gaze steadily on her.  His eyes were glazed over, as if he had been drugged; his pupils were dilated despite the glaring light from above and even from across the room, Sansa could see that the whites of his eyes were blood shot. 

_Don’t cry._ Sansa could have laughed in that moment; a bitter laugh at his audacious request.  Or perhaps she could have cried even more, to watch him squirm as his guilt ate away at him.  But then again, she imagined that he probably didn’t suffer from much remorse at what he had done.  Apparently, his friendship with her father and her family meant nothing to him if he could so easily do this to her. 

“Why?”

Manifested on a whisper, the question bubbled up from within her and spilled from her mouth faster than she could stop it.  She had wanted to know why this was all happening to her.  Why her? She was barely 18 years old and she had never done anything wrong in her life.  She was a good girl, tried her damnedest to do the right thing.  For the past week, she had laid awake at night, going through it all in her head as she tried to work backwards from the series of events that had occurred.  She played out every scenario she could think of.  Nothing, not a single thing she could come up with justified all the horror she had been put through.  And now none of that seemed to matter to her.  Now all she was left wondering was why Nestor Royce had done this to her, what purpose did it serve. 

Sansa was broken from her reverie as she heard the soft sound of crying.  Shifting her focus towards Nestor once more, Sansa saw that he was indeed crying.  The same man that had requested she cease her tears not moments earlier was now blubbering like a baby.  She had half a mind to ask _him_ to stop crying, to tell him to be a man and look her in the eye and tell her why he betrayed her trust. 

“Why are you doing this?,” Sansa demanded this time.  She wanted to hear it from him.  She doubted he was man enough to look her in the eye, but she at least wanted to hear it. 

A silence had descended upon the room.  Sansa listened to the humming of the fluorescent lights and the soft clanking sound as Nestor let his legs fall away from his chest and extend across the floor.  His deep breaths were punctuated with sniffles.  When his breathing seemed to steady and the sniffles became less frequent, Nestor cleared his throat, but never once did he lift his eyes to Sansa.  She imagined, or at least hoped, he was too ashamed to look at her.  _Good,_ she thought to herself, _you should feel sorry._

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.  I swear I didn’t.” Nestor frantically shook his head, loose tears flying from his eyes and towards the floor below. 

“Tell me _why_ ,” Sansa seethed through clenched teeth.  She didn’t care if he didn’t mean for this to happen.  It had happened and that was really all that mattered to her. 

“I wanted it all,” he whispered, a sudden lull seemingly coming over him. “I told Charlotte we would have it all.  I was a cocky young man when I asked her to marry me.  I told her she would wear diamonds everywhere she went if she wanted to.  I told her our children would attend only the best schools.  I promised the world to her and I wanted the world for myself too. 

Your father wanted to set up a law firm with me.  He approached me right before our post-law school internship was set to end.  It wasn’t going to be anything major, a humble little firm that did honest work.  I thought about it, what my life would be like if I took him up on his offer.  I still think about how things might have been different. 

I told your dad no.  I had been offered a job at a high-profile firm in Portland.  One of the senior partners had solidified my position and told me he would make me a rich man.  So I took the job there.  I busted my ass and five years later I still wasn’t a rich man.  I made a decent living, but I wanted more. 

Then in the early 90’s I was put on a case as a plaintiff’s attorney against a man who had murdered his ex-wife.  The defense team approached me, offered me money under the table if I sold out the case.  All I needed to do was botch my examination of the witnesses and counsel against bringing certain witnesses to the stand, witnesses that would have secured the case for the plaintiff.  It seemed easy enough to me, just get up there and do a half ass job.  The payday was worth it in my mind.  It was more money than I made in six months.  I just remember the look on Charlotte’s face when I came home and told her about it.  I spared the details of how I had acquired so much money in such a short amount of time.  She didn’t care either way and didn’t ask any questions about it. 

In law school they teach you about this sort of thing; dirty judges and attorneys, public officials who sabotage cases for a pay off, judges who rule lenient if you pad their wallets, cops who lose evidence or botch crime scenes.  The stories you’d hear of people doing this sort of shit made it sound like these were horrible people who would stick out like a sore thumb.  I was shocked to find out how much of this was going on and I felt like I was missing out on my opportunity.  I wanted a part of it so I kept doing it and the money kept coming in.  Charlotte and I were finally able to spend time traveling the world.  Myranda had everything she could ever want.  I gave Charlotte the house of her dreams, a Victorian mansion that was all her own.  It was dangerous and I knew it, but I had a taste of the good life and I wanted more.  Always, no matter what, I wanted more.”

Sansa felt the acidity of bile hitting the back of her throat.  She hated this man.  She hated him and she sensed he hadn’t even told her the half of it yet.  Sighing deeply, Nestor let his head fall back against the support beam he was bound to. 

“I kept doing it. More cases would come, and I would find a way to make sure I got paid, whether I won or lost the case.  Eventually, I became well connected.  I knew which judges were dirty, I knew which cops were dirty, I knew which attorneys were working under the table like I was.  Before I knew it, many of these people were under my thumb.  All I had to do was make a phone call or drop by someone’s office and I was getting what I wanted from them.  As I took on high profile cases, it became a gamble.  I was now paying to bribe judges to sway the ruling of the case. I was paying law enforcement to lose evidence.  Anything I could do to win my cases and make sure I got paid, I would do. 

It was like a drug to me; the power, the money, the parties, the excess.  I wanted to stop.  So many times, I wanted to stop, but I just couldn’t.  Eventually, Charlotte and I were spending money faster than I could make it.  Credit card debt was piling up, collection agencies were calling non-stop, and I was looking at having to file personal bankruptcy.  Around that time I was approached by a member of the Severelli crime family.  They were building a case, a case that needed to go a very particular way.  Certain people needed to be put away, others needed to be let off the hook.  It was going to require someone well connected; someone who could pull strings and ensure that things panned out the way they were supposed to.”

At that, Nestor let his eyes fall dejectedly towards the floor. 

“You,” Sansa whispered as she nodded her head.  Although she didn’t want to believe it, Nestor’s confessions struck a chord with her, as if she had been subconsciously aware all this time that things didn’t add up with him.  Only now that she was being told as much was Sansa becoming aware of how shady, vain, and arrogant Nestor Royce was. 

“Yes, me,” Nestor replied with a slow nod of his head before continuing.  “The Severelli came to me.  I was the man for the job.  No one else would do, they told me.  I was hesitant.  Dealing with dirty cops and judges was one thing.  Being involved with the mafia was another, but at the end of the day money talks.  They were willing to pay me a considerable amount of money, enough money to dig myself out of the mess I was in and maybe even start over.”

At that, Nestor paused, shaking his head as he gave a small smile.

“I envied your dad at that point.  God, how I envied him! He always did the right thing, you know? It was always duty and honesty, being an honorable man, husband, and father.  He gave your mother a comfortable life, took care of you, and was happy.  He was always happy with what he had and made the most of it.  I envied him for that.  That’s all I wanted at that point and I didn’t see any other way out so I took the Severelli offer and promised myself that I’d be done after that.  I wouldn’t keep doing this shit anymore; I’d learn to live straight and be happy doing it. 

I did what they asked me to do and no more.  I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t ask why they were pursuing the case. I didn’t ask what was in it for them.  I knew what was in it for me and that was enough to keep me satisfied.  I knew they were paying me with cartel money; money that came from other people’s addictions.  Someone in New York City was shooting up on heroin and I was getting paid, as if I couldn’t have been more of a piece of shit than I already was.  But I did it anyway.  I got my money and I was done. 

Charlotte and I got ourselves out of debt, saved our house from going into foreclosure, and for a while I got my life straight.  We had been living the high life for so long that it was hard to dial it back. Every now and then I would sell out cases when money was starting to get tight, but I never let myself get in too deep.”

Nestor fell quite at that, tentatively lifting his eyes towards Sansa as if gauging how she was taking all of this information.  Sansa didn’t know what he expected from her.  He was a crook, a fraud, a complete and utter con artist.  Squirming within her binds, Sansa scooted towards the wall a few feet behind her.  Despite the fact that Nestor Royce was not going anywhere bound to a pole, Sansa felt the need to put as much distance between her and this horrible, despicable man as she could. 

“Did you ever stop to think that you were messing with people’s lives? That murderers, rapists, child molesters were being turned out onto the streets just so you could buy Myranda designer clothes and put diamonds around your wife’s neck?”

The venom in Sansa’s voice shocked Nestor into a stunned silence as he stared at her wide eyed.  Sansa shook her head and snorted a disgusted laugh. 

“No.  You wouldn’t think about that, would you?  Well congratulations, Mr. Royce.  You’re a terrible human being, but that tells me nothing about why I’m here.”

Sansa stared daggers through him as she awaited an answer from him.  Drawing in a deep breath, Nestor nodded his head and finally lifted his eyes to her, something he had scarcely been able to do throughout the entirety of his conversation with her thus far.

“You have every right to think I’m a bad man.  I don’t blame you, Sansa. I’ve done some terrible things and I guess I deserve for you to think I’m a terrible person.”

At this, Nestor dropped his eyes once more, which infuriated Sansa more than she could have thought possible. Erupting in an anger she didn’t know she possessed, Sansa snapped a furious stare towards him. 

“Quit with the self-pity! And answer my question.  Why I am I here? Why did you do this to me?”

Nestor squeezed his eyes shut, as if doing so would make everything go away.  When he finally opened his eyes, he apprehensively matched his eyes to Sansa and began speaking slowly, deliberately.

 “After your uncle Brandon died, your father took over as District Attorney and threw himself headlong into the Moriarti case that your uncle had been working on.  He had been reluctant at first.  I remember having a very long conversation with him over a few beers about how scared he was for you and Catelyn should he take on the case.  He hated the corruption of the city.  He hated that he had built his career on being an honest, good person and yet there were attorneys out there making a joke of the profession by doing it dirty.  He didn’t want his brother’s work to be in vain.  He felt a need to show people that he wasn’t afraid and that he wasn’t going to tolerate the corruption any longer. 

As he was telling me all of this, going on and on about how he and I were a few of the only honest attorneys left, I felt like a complete joke and I was.  I really was and in that moment, I felt like he could see it in me and that he knew what I had been doing and was trying to get me to come clean.  I didn’t though.  I was embarrassed and ashamed so I said nothing and just agreed with everything he said. 

About a year ago, I was approached once more by the Severelli, this time by their underboss.  They wanted me on the Moriarti case.  Again, they wanted me to influence it, make sure it reached a very specific outcome.  I told them no.  I didn’t want to do it and even if I could, the honorable Ned Stark was District Attorney on the case.  Nothing shady was going to get past him. 

They didn’t care though and this time they weren’t offering money.  They had been keeping track of my under-the-table earnings.  They had information on almost every dirty deal I was ever involved in and they were going to take it to the media.  My career would be over and beyond that, I would be looking at significant prison time, probably the rest of my life.  And then there was Charlotte and Myranda.”

Nestor’s voice cracked as the name of his wife and child passed his lips.  He fell silent for many moments, staring mindlessly towards a spot on the floor before speaking again.

“If I didn’t get on board with the Moriarti case, they were going to hurt Charlotte and Myranda. They told me as much in graphic detail.  They had followed Myranda home from school one day.  They sent me pictures.  They didn’t do anything, but they were making a point; they had access to my daughter and were dead set on carrying through with their threats.  I was backed into a corner. I had no other choice so I agreed. 

Your dad was ecstatic when I offered to be a litigator on the case. Ned and Nestor, the dynamic duo, he called us.  He had felt like he was getting nowhere with the Moriarti case, like he was treading water, but as soon as I jumped on board, it’s like he got his second wind.  I’ve never seen your dad throw himself into his work like he did when I came on board.

The case was shaping up to be the biggest undertaking the District Attorney’s office had ever seen.  Your dad was going all the way with this; it was all or nothing.  He wanted every long standing member of the Moriarti family put away for as long as possible.  Any auxiliary members or associates would be prosecuted with whatever we could come up with.  Underboss, street bosses, soldiers, every made man was to be put away.  And then there was the Hound, the boss of the Moriarti family.  Your father just couldn’t sink his claws into him.  The man is illusive and careful to cover his tracks.  It was like the Hound just kept slipping through his fingers.”

Sansa snapped her eyes up to Nestor.  Somehow hearing Sandor called “The Hound” seemed odd to her now.  She hadn’t known when that happened, but it did.

“The Hound is a smart man and dangerous too. No one disputes that, but there was a reason your father could never seem to get a hold on the Hound.  And that reason was me. 

I had been given specific directions for how to maneuver the case.  If I fucked up or let things get sloppy, my wife and daughter’s lives were on the line.  The first thing I had to do is get in contact with the Moriarti defense team.  Luckily, the attorneys with the most sway were men I knew quite well and had influence over.  They were to lose when it came to defense of the underboss and all the street bosses.  Those men were going to prison, no doubt about it. 

In exchange, we’d let the Hound go and they’d get a payout for that.  Somehow, someway the charges against him would never come to fruition.  He’d walk, but his organization would be wiped off the map. 

Next came the judge, he was bought and paid for.  If for some reason the Hound was found guilty, he’d get off easy. The most he would be sentenced with was probation.  Nothing more than that.  The Hound’s underboss and street bosses would be hit with life sentences.  All other members would be sentenced as strictly as possible. 

Finally, witnesses were to be bribed or ‘taken care of’ as the Severelli put it.  Essentially, the entire case was going to be rigged before it even came to trial. 

When I began working on the case with your father, I had to start reaching out to my old connections.  I began sabotaging certain components of the case, especially those related to the Hound.  Witnesses were paid to drop out before their depositions could take place.  Pieces of evidence were going missing, thanks to my connections within the police department.  Given that this was a mafia case, all of these things weren’t outlandish.  For a long time, your father assumed witnesses were dropping out because they were being threatened by the Moriarti family.  He assumed that the Moriarti had the connections within the police department. 

The longer things went on though the more suspicious your father became.  Things weren’t adding up in his mind and I could see by the way he started to look at me that he was putting things together.  And then one day, he dropped it on me like a ton of bricks.  He confronted me, asked me if I was rigging the case.  I denied it at first, told him he was crazy. 

But your dad was thorough.  He kept track of things and I should have fucking known that.  Ned Stark wasn’t someone who could go on without noticing all the things I was doing behind-the-scenes.  With almost every component of the case already masterminded, there were too many components that weren’t adding up or that were looking fishy from the outside.  After I denied it, your father laid it all out in front of me.  After banging his head up against the wall for so long, he had started taking scrupulous notes on the case, trying to figure out where things were going wrong.  Anytime something didn’t pan out the way it should have, I was somehow involved with it.  After awhile that sort of thing no longer becomes a coincidence. 

Your dad had backed me into a corner at that point.  I could deny it all I wanted, but he already knew what I was doing and was furious.  Beyond that, it was like I had broken the man’s heart.  He trusted me and I know that.  So I told him.  I told him everything, starting with the very first case I had dealt with under the table and ending with my involvement with the Severelli.  I was in too deep at that point. I didn’t know how to get myself out. 

I tell you what, the stupidest thing I could have done was tell your father what was going on.  Somehow the Severelli found out about that.  To this day, I have no idea how, but they did and they knew Ned was going to blow the lid on everything.  It would all be exposed and therefore Ned was a liability.  They wanted me to coerce your father, to try and lure him somewhere so that they could take care of him and shut him up for good.  _‘Dead men don’t talk’_ they told me.  I was horrified.  I wanted nothing to do with it.  I wanted to go to the police.  I didn’t care at that point if I was brought to trial for all I had done.  I just wanted out.

I told them as much and they went away.  I thought it was over with.  I thought I had dodged a bullet.  And then the party happened.  Charlotte had wanted security for the event.  The agency she went through for security was bought off by the Severelli mafia.  The security guards were actually men from the Severelli family, ordered to make a massacre of the affair.  They had expected your father to be there and were intent on silencing him.  Obviously, your dad bowed out of the party, but you and your mother were there which was the next best thing.  Your father hasn’t been heard from since the day after the party.  He’s alive, but he’s on the run most likely and I do know he’s looking for you.  Charlotte is gone and they have Myranda still alive somewhere. They’re using her as leverage against me.  If I brought them you, they would bring Myranda back to me alive. They’re hoping that you can bring your father out of the woodwork.”

Somewhere along the line, Sansa’s mouth had fallen open, agape in shock and horror.  Memories of the party flashed through her mind; the screaming, the gun shots, the fire, and Sandor.  She had thought, had just assumed, that the Royce party massacre was done by him; that the security guards were his men.  Shaking her head at the thought, Sansa realized she had been dreadfully wrong.  Sandor had treated her well; he had never hurt her, seemed concerned about her well-being, had even seemed protective of her.  As the thoughts kept crashing towards the forefront of her mind, the pieces were beginning to fall in place. Alberto had told her things were not what they seemed, told her to keep an open mind.  The man had known, Mirabelle had known, they all knew. Everyone but her.    

And just when she thought Nestor Royce couldn’t sink any lower, he hit her with these abhorrent confessions.  One right after another, they just kept coming until Sansa’s head was a jumble trying to keep it all straight.  Trembling like a leaf, Sansa pulled her knees to her chest and shot a sideways glare at the man-this terrible, conniving man- who had committed so many egregious acts, many against her father and her family. 

A question lingered on her lips that Sansa wasn’t quite sure she was ready to know the answer to.  She had assumed the worst, but had been given a tiny sliver of hope that she was trying desperately to hold onto.  It was all she had left to keep her going. 

Sucking in a shaky breath, Sansa armored herself the best she could before lifting her heavy-lidded eyes towards Nestor. 

“My mother,” Sansa whispered through quivering lips.  “Is she alive?”

Nestor dropped his head, slumping forward slightly with a strained look pulling his skin tightly across his tired and beaten face.  Sansa saw as he slowly shook his head and felt as though she might stop breathing. 

“I’m sorry, Sansa.  She didn’t make it,” Nestor mumbled from across the room. 

Sansa felt as though she barely heard him, as if she were underwater and hearing his words from somewhere up above.  The words sent a stabbing pain through her chest that elicited a cry to exit her lips.  Bringing her bound arms to her chest, Sansa felt her heart breaking.  Literally, she felt the burning pain in her chest and the tightening around her windpipe which was making the simple task of breathing seem like a herculean feat that she wasn’t so sure she could manage.  When Sansa’s grandmother passed away, her mother had told her she felt like a child again, lost in the grocery store and calling out for her mother, but knowing her mother would never come because she was now alone, without her Mom.   

Sansa never imagined she would come to know the heart wrenching truth of her mother’s words so soon.   She wanted her Mom.  She wanted her mother to hold her and tell her it would be okay.  She wanted to smell her mother’s perfume as it mingling amongst the waves of her hair.  She wanted her mother to stand behind her in the mirror and tell her that she was pretty. 

Frantically shaking her head, Sansa tried to make it all go away, to will it all to just be a nightmare.  She was tired of opening her eyes to find herself in a relentless hell from which she couldn’t be free.  As the tears poured over her cheeks, Sansa fell to the floor once more, lowering herself to the ground as she let the sobs come over her like waves. 

Sansa knew not how long she stayed like that; tucked into a ball on the floor as she wept salty tears that would not stop.  Eventually, Sansa heard a door open and suddenly, like a faucet, her tears ceased.  Through eyes still wet, the figure in the doorway was obscured to a blur, but she felt her heart skip a beat as she noticed the way the figure seemed to fill the entire frame of the door.  _It’s him.  He found me!_

Pushing herself straight up and blinking away the last of her tears, Sansa squinted towards the door once more before feeling her blood run cold and a gasping breath escape her lips. 

It wasn’t Sandor who was pacing towards her from the doorway, but he was just as large.  Actually, he was _larger_ than Sandor, if that was even possible.  Sansa hadn’t believed it possible until now.  The man was now standing over her and Sansa imagined he stood well over seven feet tall, but was every bit as muscled as Sandor.  The man’s face intimated unspeakable brutality; his heavy brow set his ice grey eyes in narrow slits that were as intimidating as they were cruel.  With a large, hooked nose and thin lips pressed together in a perpetual scowl, Sansa felt like she was looking at the face of evil come alive.  As the man towered over her, Sansa’s heart beat raced into a panic while she scooted her way across the floor and pressed herself up against the wall.  Her movements were pure instinct for there was nowhere to hide from this man.  Her body coiled into a tight ball as Sansa shrunk away from him.

Emboldened by her offering of fear, the man let out a malicious laugh which made every hair on her body feel as though it was standing on end.  Faster than she could ever imagine possible in such a _large_ man, Sansa felt one of his hands wrap painfully around her upper arm as he yanked her from the wall and dragged her across the floor.  Sansa squirmed feebly against the man as she let out a yelp of a scream.  She felt as though her arm might snap in half at the force of his fingers digging into her skin.  Flinging her towards Nestor in one forceful motion, Sansa went sliding across the floor and slammed into the wall.  The force at which she hit the wall knocked the wind out of her and Sansa shakily went on hands and knees as she fought like hell to fill her lungs with air once more. 

From the corner of her eye, Sansa saw Nestor Royce was shaking uncontrollably and had started to cry again.  Apparently, the large man had been his torturer and the man’s mere presence sent Nestor into a nervous breakdown.  Sansa could have cried too, but she was too afraid to move, to speak, to let the tears come for fear that this mountain of a man might strike at any moment. 

And strike he did, even though Sansa had been sure to remain as still as possible. Pulling her up by her arm once more, the man forced her to sit up with her back flush against the wall.  If her head was pounding before, it was surely hammering hard against her skull now.  Three more men had filed into the room and one of them was instantly set to work with unbinding Nestor.  Once free of the handcuffs, Nestor breathed a sigh of relief before the mountain of a man pulled him to his feet and wrapped one of his large hands around Nestor’s neck. 

Reaching into his back pocket with a free hand, Sansa watched as the large man pulled out a blackberry cell phone and held it in front of Nestor’s face.

“You’ll call him,” the large man began, his voice an ominous grumble like the rolling of distant thunder. “You’ll call him from your own cell phone this time. And when you get him on the phone, you’ll pass it off to the little bitch.”

The large man set his cold eyes on Sansa after growling out the last part.  Instantaneously, Sansa felt her fear grip her and her chest burn as her breathing slowed to a halt.  After letting go of Nestor, the large man slowly paced towards Sansa and crouched down in front of her, snatching up her chin in one of his humongous hands and squeezing so tightly she thought he meant to crush her jaw open. 

“Do you want to talk to your daddy, little girl?,” the large man mocked as he pressed her head back against the wall.  Sansa couldn’t move, no more than she could talk.  The large man pushed her head up and down in a nodding motion before exhaling a devious laugh.

One of the other men pulled Nestor over to where Sansa was and shoved him to the ground to sit next to her.  While the large man kept his hand securely around Sansa’s chin, his eyes had shifted towards Nestor who was fumbling with his cell phone.

“Do you have a death wish? What is taking so fucking long?,” the large man barked out, his anger manifesting through his fingers which were clenching even tighter around Sansa’s chin. 

“I had to turn my phone back on.  It takes a minute to power up,” Nestor responded hesitantly, clearly terrified to anger the large man more than he already was. 

If Nestor’s phone truly took a minute to power up, then it was the longest minute of Sansa’s life.  The room was thick with a heavy and dangerous tension as all eyes in the room were on Nestor Royce and his blackberry phone.  Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the screen of Nestor’s phone flashed on with a background picture of his Porsche Boxster, his prized possession in life. 

With shaky fingers, Sansa saw as he pulled up her father’s phone number in his contacts list and slowly pressed his thumb to the screen.  Although his phone was lifted to his ear, Sansa could still hear the ringing.

… _rinnnnnnggg…_

Sansa felt her eyes go wide.  What if her father answered?

… _rinnnnnnggg…_

What if he didn’t answer? Sansa felt her heart sink to the pit of her stomach.

… _rinnnnnnggg…_

A sudden click sounded on the other end and Sansa felt as though her heart might beat right out of her chest.  Her vision blurred at the edges and Sansa suddenly felt like she was losing focus on her surroundings.

_You've reached Eddard Stark. I'm sorry I am unable to take your call right now. Please leave a name, number, and a brief message and I will get back to you as soon as possible._

It was her father’s voice and although it was the sweetest sound Sansa had ever heard, her heart felt like it was breaking all over again. 

Suddenly, the large man pulled his hand away from Sansa’s jaw and yanked the phone from Nestor’s still trembling hands.  The man pressed the phone to his ear and cocked his head to the side as he stared hot daggers through Sansa.

“Your daughter wants to talk to you,” the large man taunted through the phone as he pulled his lips into a malicious smile.

Pulling the phone away from his face, the large man handed it to her.

“Say hello to your daddy, little girl.”

Sansa had barely heard the large man as she pushed the phone hurriedly to her ear and exhaled a shaky breath.

“Daddy. Please,” she whispered into the phone.

 

 

Before Sansa could say more, the large man yanked the phone away from her and held the bottom of the phone in front of his mouth.

“You had best return my calls, Papa Stark. I’ll be calling you from a different number and you had better pick up next time.”   

With one hand, the large man smashed the phone to the ground and sent pieces of the blackberry scurrying across the floor. 

* * *

By the sheer number of cars still parked in the half circle drive of the Moriarti mansion, Sandor knew many of his men stayed.  They had lives of their own; families, mortgages, day jobs. Yet they stayed behind long after Alonzo’s post-funeral festivities were over.  It was a show of solidarity, he knew.  Each car still parked in the drive meant that that man had made a choice to stay behind.  Despite nagging wives and fussing children, these men had understood that shit went down and were there to offer what support they could. 

In a frenzy to get out the door before time slipped away and with it Sansa, Sandor had only had a handful of his men in tow when he peeled out of the driveway and headed towards the gas station.  From there, his men had split up.  The vast majority had stayed behind at the mansion, unaware of what was happening and undoubtedly left scratching their heads in the dust as they wondered where Sandor had been fleeing to like a bat out of hell. 

Sandor had only reluctantly retreated back to the mansion; feeling every bit the defeated dog who was running back with his tail between his legs.  However, he knew that Bronn was right; they couldn’t very well sit out in the desert all night hoping against hope that they may get some lead.  Despite Bronn’s assurances, coming back to the mansion was admitting a sort of defeat and that admission had meant that Sansa was gone and he had no idea-not a fucking clue- how to get her back. 

Entering into the mansion through the underground hallway that lead to the basement lounge, Sandor could hear the faint murmuring of conversation.  It wasn’t the raucous laughter or bawdy shouting that normally filled the room.  The voices were low and hushed, serious words swathed in solemn tones.  Somehow this troubled Sandor. Perhaps it was his own qualms about approaching his men and relaying to them what had happened.  He imagined they already knew, but they needed to hear it from him.  He wasn’t in the mood for dealing with half-truths born to life by speculative gossip.  It would all be laid out straight and put on the table.  Anyone who had concerns, questions, or criticisms could shove them up their ass for all he cared. 

The other night he had entertained all their misgivings, their complaints, their self-important needs to have a say in the matter of what went down in Las Vegas.  Tonight he wouldn’t be having any of that.  No, tonight they could mull it over with one another as they sucked down their cocktails and smoked their stogies.  Tonight Sandor would be nothing more than a shadow in the room; a presence that existed in thought, but not physical form.  They could talk about it all they wanted, but he wouldn’t be there to listen.

Sandor pushed through the heavy wooden door to the basement lounge and watched as every head in the room lifted as the door flung open and slammed into the wall.  A hush had fallen over the men, each looking up at him with shrewd eyes.  Sandor could tell that the men were not stunned into silence, but rather the silence had a certain sympathy to it.  The men averted their stares as Sandor traversed through the room, quiet as a ghost.  As soon as he passed a group of men, he could feel their eyes on his back as they lifted their stares to him once more. 

No one said a word as Sandor reached the staircase on the other side of the room and headed upstairs, disappearing from their sight.  Even as he reached the top of the staircase, his ears were met with a deafening silence coming from the lounge below.  Perhaps in his absence they had already discussed all they wished to discuss or perhaps they were waiting until they heard his heavy foot falls above them retreat far enough away that they could be assured he was out of earshot.  Only then would they resume their conversations.  Sandor imagined it was the latter and imagined he didn’t give a fuck if they wanted to piss their time away whispering back and forth to one another about how they had told him from the beginning Sansa was a liability. 

Shaking his head and huffing out his frustration, Sandor wished he could make them see.  Sansa Stark was not a liability to the organization.  Rather the organization was a liability to Sansa Stark.  The girl could come and go out of the picture and they would still be dealing with violence, alliances gone bad, and retaliatory tit-for-tat.  The same shit would go down as it always did and their lives would still be the same.  However, Sansa’s life had gone through devastating and drastic changes in a matter of a week.  She had been at the wrong place and the wrong time, but so had he.  The manner in which their paths originally crossed was bloody, violent, and filled with dangerous and mutual misunderstandings from the get-go.  Sandor had had every intention of clarifying the misconceptions that remained between him and Sansa.  And then this happened.

Sandor sought out his retreat on the balcony of the second floor.  It was tucked away in the back of the house and offered the isolation he so desperately wanted in this moment.  A part of him wanted to distract his turbulent thoughts with alcohol.  He could drown them away on whiskey, but somehow he sensed that would only make things worse.  The other part of him knew that he needed to remain sober in case the miraculous happened and he somehow got a lead on Sansa.  Although that hope was dwindling by the minute, it was all he had to hang onto.  Turning to the bottle meant severing the last shred of hope he had. 

_No.  Fuck that.  I won’t take that chance; the chance that one of my men come up with something and I’m too shitfaced to do anything about it._

As Sandor stepped out onto the balcony, he was immediately met with the subtle chill of the air.  He was still getting used to the desert climate.  How it could be ungodly hot during the day and cold as fuck by night, Sandor wasn’t sure.  But he was sure that this place was a special kind of hell he had been put in.  Leaning against the balcony railing, Sandor set his gaze to the expanse of sand, cacti, and flickering city lights off in the distance.  Behind it all, the mountains were a black silhouette set against the evening sky.  Despite the ridiculous climate, the desert had a strange aesthetic to it. 

“Do you remember what I told you about the desert when you first came here?”

Despite Alberto’s voice behind him, Sandor didn’t turn around or shift his stare towards the approaching man.  He knew Alberto would seek him out.  Sandor allowed a soft exhale of breath to suffice as a laugh.

“You told me it was like a woman; beautiful, but deadly.” 

Sandor remembered that conversation like it was yesterday.  It was one of the first heart-to-heart conversations he had had with Alberto.  He had been a teenager then; reckless, full of violent rage, and in desperate need of direction.  Alberto had patiently and relentlessly put up with all of Sandor’s shit and all that manifested from the disaster that was his teenage angst at the time. 

In the periphery of his vision Sandor could see the crimson glow of Alberto’s lit cigar as it hovered to the left of him.  Gently, the man rested his hands on the balcony railing and stared off towards the desert. 

“Beautiful and deadly, indeed.  I remember telling you not to get sucked in.  That’s the problem.  People are so distracted by the beauty, they set off towards it.  Before they know it, they’re lost and dying amongst the beauty that had so desperately wanted to seek.”

Sandor clenched his teeth in agitation as he stood up to his full height and turned towards Alberto who, undaunted by Sandor’s growing irritation, was still placidly considering the sights from the balcony. 

“I respect you, old man,” Sandor set in as he punctuated his words with a pointing of his index finger. “I really do.  But if this is some sort of bullshit analogy for Sansa, then I don’t want to fucking hear it.”

Alberto let out a soft exhaled laugh as he pulled on his cigar.  Puffing plumes of fragrant smoke into the air, Alberto turned towards Sandor, gazing up at him with eyes that seemingly saw everything, no matter how well guised. 

“No.  It was not meant as an analogy.  I was simply reminiscing on one of our first conversations.”

Alberto let his eyes fall to the ground as he folded his arms across his chest and furrowed his brow, gathering his thoughts.  Having had enough of these insightful conversations with this man, Sandor knew when he was thinking, formulating what he wanted to say next and choosing his words with the same delicacy as he chose his cigars.  Sandor had learned long ago that all he could do is patiently wait until Alberto had crafted his monologues of profundity; the longer he had to wait, the more profound the revelations. 

Finally, Alberto let his arms relax to his side and lifted his eyes to Sandor once more. 

“It’s interesting that you so quickly jump to the conclusion that my musings and recollections were somehow an analogy-filled lecture about Sansa.  What sort of criticism were you expecting from me in regards to the Stark girl?”

_Fuck.  The man has a point._   _And brings up a damn good question._  

“The men think she’s a liability to the family.  Renaldo, your former street boss, called my ass out the other night; said that Sansa either needs to be in or out and that her “on-the-fence” position with the family would end in tragedy for everyone involved.”  At that, Sandor threw his hands in the air, gesturing towards everything around him.  “Low and behold, tragedy.”

“Tragedy for whom? You make the assumption that our men think this is a tragedy, her having gone missing.  To them, she’s the daughter of a District Attorney who somehow got mixed up in your dealings with Gregor.  You brought her here and now she’s gone.  I bet half of them don’t even remember her name, if they even knew it at all.”

Alberto stared at Sandor pointedly, almost as if willing him to puzzle out the subtext to all that he had said.  Sandor understood what he was saying well enough, but Alberto spoke in riddles; never really saying what he meant until you figured out what he was meaning to say.  Only then would he reveal it all with some poignant statement, but by then it was obvious what he was getting at. 

“What does this have to do with anything?,” Sandor demanded, feeling as though his time was being wasted although he had nothing to do, but wait. 

Matching Sandor’s stance, Alberto leaned forward and rested his forearms on the balcony railing as he took another long pull from his cigar. 

“I used to have this really nice fountain pen,” Alberto started. 

Sandor rolled his eyes.  _Here we fucking go…_

“I had been looking at it for awhile. I guess I liked the idea of sitting at my fancy desk, writing with a fancy pen.  My wife told me to splurge, do something nice for myself so I did.  I bought this fucking thing and I guess it was nice.  It wrote well enough and sure as shit looked real fancy on my desk. 

I used it a few times before losing it somewhere.  I looked for the damn thing and couldn’t find it. I was upset about it for maybe 10 minutes as I was looking for it, but eventually I got busy doing something and forgot all about it. 

My wife, though, she loved pens.  She had this weird OCD thing about them.  They had to ‘feel’ a certain way as she wrote.  They had to have just the right diameter and just the right grip.  We went to our mortgage broker one day, spent two hours there working some bullshit out.  When we left, she got into the car and pulled this damn pen out of her purse giggling like a school girl.  It was our mortgage broker’s pen.  She had signed something and then walked off with his pen.  She said it was perfect in every way.  I looked at the thing and it was a hideous rainbow colored pen that was probably handed out at some promotional event for some company.  It was a cheap thing, but it was the fact that she had serendipitously come across the thing that made her day. 

From that point on, that was _her_ pen.  She used it for everything.  It was her favorite, the pen to end all pens.  I used to joke with her about it all the time, give her a hard time.  It became sort of an inside joke between us.  Whenever the rainbow pen was out, we would laugh and make fun of each other and that damned pen.  When she passed away and I was handling her things, I came across this pen; this ugly, rainbow colored, cheap ass pen.  I couldn’t get rid of it so I put it on my desk and used the thing from time to time.  Every time I used it, I thought of her; her little nuances, the things that made her happy, such as this fucking pen, and I thought about how much I loved her. 

Then I lost the pen.  I had used it one day and then it was gone the next.  I broke down in tears trying to look for it.  It was ridiculous to everyone else.  It was just a pen! I had pens, more pens than I needed so why was I getting so upset? That pen was a memory of her.  It was a reminder of one of the many reasons I loved her.  It meant something to me and I had lost it, just like I lost her.  It didn’t have to make sense to other people.  Whether or not they understood didn’t take away from the way I felt. I never found the damn thing.”

Before Sandor could open his mouth to reply, Alberto clapped him on the shoulder and set his wizened eyes deliberately on Sandor. 

“ _There’s_ your analogy.  You lost something that means something to you.  It’s a tragedy to _you_ , Sandor.  Just because the men don’t understand or agree with it, doesn’t mean that you can change what it is to _you_. Nor should you.”

Although the man had taken the most bizarre and round-about path to make his point, he had made a point nonetheless.   Why he had to speak in analogies was beyond Sandor, but the man never failed to offer sound advice and insight.  The rambling and beating-around-the-bush moments were almost worth it when all was said and done. 

And apparently, all was said and done because Alberto slowly stood and retreated from the balcony, hands in his pocket and a contented smile on his face.

Sandor knew the man’s M.O. He swept in, eventually made his point, and then left you with some thought provoking statement that you’d end up thinking about for the rest of the day. 

However, Sandor hadn’t needed Alberto’s thought provoking statements.  His thoughts had already been provoked the night he saw Sansa eagerly trying to melt into the sidelines of the Royce party.  She was pretty, so fucking pretty.  He wanted her.  His body responded to her.  Maybe it was the whiskey or maybe it was her, but he had felt the heat of his body settle in his cock which had slowly begun to harden as he watched her.  He had been a shameless voyeur, eagerly watching as she squirmed beneath his stare.  He had liked it; the way she blushed, the way she lifted her eyes to him and then let them fall away, the way her lips parted slightly as if she gasped each time she caught him drinking in the sight of her.  

She had felt it too.  And she had liked it.  That he knew for a certainty.  Why else would she continue to let him undress her with his eyes, watch from afar and imagine doing all sorts of things with that pretty mouth and perfect body of hers?

The attraction had indeed been instantaneous and it had been mutual.  It filled the room and he had relished the feeling and the sight of her for as long as he could until being pulled from his visual assault on her and back into the task at hand.  He had come with his men to the Royce party for a reason and that reason needed to be fulfilled. 

It had been too late though.  The popping sounds and subsequent screams were something Sandor knew all too well, their sound so familiar that it had almost become a sort of silence to him.  Regardless, he had not anticipated what was happening all around him; the bodies piling up in damn near every room of the house, the fires being set, the gates being shut so that no one could leave.  Sandor had had only a handful of his men with him, but as the chaos erupted around him, he thought of her.  He had known his brother was coming for Ned Stark.  He hadn’t known when, but he knew it was going to happen.  And then it did, except Ned wasn’t in attendance at the party.  The man was nowhere to be seen and who could miss that stern face, lined with worry and early age? However his daughter was there; the same daughter Sandor had slowly and lingeringly undressed with his eyes.  He hadn’t known that the red-head with long legs, perfect tits, and lips that were begging to be kissed, bit, and licked was Ned Stark’s daughter.  He hadn’t known what to do with that information when Marco leaned over and mumbled it in his ear.  A small sting of shame had gone through him.  But mostly, it had intrigued him.  His physical desire of her was then layered with a desire to know her, to hear what her voice sounded like, to see if she was a smart girl or a mindless idiot; was she sweet or a stuck up bitch? Shy or outgoing? Sandor imagined she was the former of them all; smart, sweet, shy. 

Sandor knew his brother and his brother was likely to want to know Sansa Stark as well, but for entirely different reasons.  Gregor had come to the Royce’s party with his own purpose and wouldn’t leave until he achieved the ends he was striving for.  If Gregor couldn’t have Ned Stark, he would find a way to get to the man and that meant having Sansa.  Sandor’s presumptions were all but confirmed as he saw Gregor’s men pressing their guns to the heads of party goers who had been in the same room as Sansa.  Then he heard as Gregor’s men threatened lives if Sansa or Catelyn Stark weren’t turned up.  The problem with Gregor’s men was that they weren’t patient.  They were reckless and violent.  Bullets were put in heads, the same heads that were probably about to divulge the whereabouts of Sansa or her mother. 

Sandor’s physical desire layered with curiosity had now taken on a strange and unexpected life of its own.  Realizing that Sansa Stark, the girl he knew nothing about was now in danger, an instantaneous and involuntary desire to protect her had started to bubble up within him.  He had no control over it, none whatsoever.  In fact, the suddenness at which he felt it forming left him wondering if he wasn’t being driven to find Sansa Stark just to spite his brother, to take something that he now knew his brother wanted.  Sandor had settled on that explanation for the reason he was now actively seeking out Sansa, darting into rooms with his gun drawn as he searched out her long waves of auburn hair. 

At this point, the fires had begun to engulf half the house.  Fears that had been buried deep within him, but never forgotten were beginning to emerge.  Waves of stifling heat were pouring from the Royce family great room and as they licked against Sandor’s face, he felt an all-too-familiar fear begin to sully his judgments and movements.  He was becoming sloppy and desperate; the strange and unexpected urge to find Sansa was now battling the fear-induced need to get the fuck out. 

Retreating away from the rooms now filled with smoke and fire, Sandor had spotted her in the kitchen as she and her friend pleaded with Nestor’s daughter to leave with them.  Like a hound picking up the scent of blood, Sandor had zeroed in on her, his instincts to flee now entirely forgotten as he worked towards her.  She had struggled in his arms and he could smell her fear intermingling with the sweet scent of her perfume.  When her elbow came swinging to meet his stomach, Sandor had been shocked at her wolfishness.  The shy, sweet girl that couldn’t meet his eyes earlier in the night had some fight in her.  Sandor found it both troubling and exhilarating.  As she tried to get away, she fell to the ground; the ground that was awaiting her with a bed of broken glass.  Once more she struggled against him and Sandor had begun to understand this girl was indeed a fighter; sweet as honey, but a fighter nonetheless. 

He had been so close to her; situated on top of her as he straddled her legs, his arms resting on either side of her head.  Knowing the glass was underneath her, he has been cognizant enough to not press his full weight against her.  But fucking hell, he needed to calm her down, get her to stop squirming underneath him. If only she would have known in that moment that he never meant to hurt her.  If she could have understood everything, maybe she wouldn’t have struggled against him.  The words that eventually came out of his mouth were threatening and undoubtedly terrified her.  He never was good with words.   

In the end, he had lost her to a wisp of a boy, some kid who got lucky and momentarily managed to get Sandor off of Sansa.  It was long enough for her to disappear into the night.  From Portland back to the Moriarti mansion, Sandor had thought of her.  He had thought of everything, but his mind would always veer him down a path that led right back to her.  He had convinced himself that he not only wanted, but that he needed to get to Sansa Stark before his brother.  He had tried making it a little game in his mind, a competition of sorts.  Only now did he realize that this alone couldn’t have driven him to pick up the phone and call the last person he wanted to call.  Leon had been contacted out of desperation, as a last resort.  Sandor hadn’t wanted to, but he did.  There had been plenty of opportunities in the past for Sandor to fuck with his brother, to take from him something he wanted.  Sandor had never taken any of those opportunities, didn’t really care to. 

Sansa was different though; his want and need to find her wasn’t driven by spite for his brother and it wasn’t driven by lust for her.  Nor was it was driven by a want to know what she was all about.  He was a human being after all, not a monster as some believed him to be.  Sandor knew what his brother would do to Sansa.  He would get all he needed out of Sansa, fuck her into the ground and leave her a bloody mess, then get rid of her.  Beautiful or not, intriguing or not, Sandor couldn’t suffer the thought of that happening to her or anyone else for that matter.  No one, no matter how awful, deserved to meet their end by his brother’s hands. 

So he had picked up the phone to call Leon against all his better judgment.  If he could get to her before Gregor, he could save her life.  And saving the life of an innocent person that he didn’t even know meant perhaps atoning for some of the wrong he had done in his lifetime.  It was a karma thing, he had convinced him.  He was only doing this because he had the opportunity to do something good for a change and had decided he might as well take it.  He would have done it for anyone else that was on Gregor’s radar, he convinced himself.

As the hours went by since Leon had been unleashed out into the world to find Sansa, Sandor had found himself growing anxious.  He had tried to enjoy his whiskey on the rocks and Cuban cigar.  He had tried to enjoy the company of Bronn, laugh at the man’s vulgar quips, but his mind was distracted.  He thought of her although he tried not to.  Eventually he had drank enough that he was distracted and Bronn’s humor was now hilarious to him.  Whereas before it would only garner a half smile at most, Sandor found himself laughing.  At some point, he passed out cold and was blessed by a night of dreamless sleep.  When he awoke, he had a pounding headache and an all-too clear memory that Leon had not contacted him yet.  The nagging worry once more set in and Sandor felt his nerves beginning to stir. 

The day wore on and still no word.  He had worked out in the morning, like he normally did.  The distraction of dead lifts, back squats, bench presses, and curls was short lived, even as he let Bronn rotate into the routine.  Mirabelle had made him breakfast and he had looked at her sideways.  Every now and then Mirabelle would do something like that and it was usually after he had had a rough night.  As if afraid to talk to him about it, she would bake him muffins instead and leave them out with some sort of cutesy note in lieu of an actual conversation where she might bear the brunt of his foul mood or short temper.  It was her way of testing the waters with him.  That morning, however, she had stuck around and leaned over the counter, watching as he sat there devouring muffins and refused to meet her insistent stare.  Mirabelle was curious, for better or worse, and she hung around asking questions.  She asked about the party, asked about Gregor, and then hesitantly asked about the rumors that she had heard; rumors that he had sent Leon after the District Attorney’s daughter.  Not understanding the situation, she had tried to chide him, to scold him for what she thought he was doing.

Sandor had laughed at that.  She didn’t know what he was doing and as he sat there silently chewing the last of a blueberry muffin, he started to think he didn’t know what he was doing either.  And then the call came from Go-Go.  They had found her and her friend too.  Sandor had given specific orders; he didn’t want Sansa or the boy hurt.  As Go-Go explained that Leon had shot the boy to death, Sandor felt his rage boiling within him.  This was madness.  Complete, utter madness. He could have called it off.  He could have had Go-Go and Marco take Sansa back to Portland, back to her father and been done with it.  Gregor would more than likely be waiting there and Ned Stark was no match for Gregor or his men.  The small arsenal of handguns he imagined Ned stark owned wouldn’t do shit when Gregor was pounding down his door.  Even if Gregor only wanted Ned, now that he knew Ned had a daughter Gregor was likely to have that daughter too. 

Leon was a ticking time bomb of insanity.  Every minute that wore on, Leon was closer to losing it.  Guilt had begun to stir within Sandor; guilt that he had sent Leon after her and guilt that she was probably scared out of her mind.  With the knowledge that she was on her way to him, Sandor thought he might be able to rest a little easier, that his anxiousness might calm some, but it never did.  Sitting in the alcove with Alberto and nursing his whiskey, Sandor was now vexed with a different kind of anxiousness.  Leon could hurt her, _really_ hurt her.  Sandor found himself thinking about it, growing agitated about it.  He didn’t trust Leon, but he trusted Bronn.  He sent Bronn to meet the men halfway, to retrieve Sansa.  Bronn had done his duty and obliged.  When he brought Sansa back, Sandor had been both horrified and enraged at her condition.  She was a bloody fucking mess and it was very obvious she had suffered some abuse on her way there. 

His rage had erupted and left Leon bleeding on the floor.  She had flinched when he tried wiping the blood from her.  She wouldn’t look at him, but when she finally did, it was a look heavy with so much fear that he had taken it to heart.  He hadn’t wanted to, but he couldn’t help the complexities of agitation, feeling of slight, and guilt that coursed through him.  He wanted her to see him and what he was trying to do without having to convince her that he wasn’t a monster, not really.  He had realized she was likely to not believe him and that frustrated him and left him feeling a bit wounded.  The feeling of being wounded pissed him off. 

In the alcove, he had flipped through the file Bronn had found in the Royce house.  Nestor had Ned Stark’s entire history-financial, business, and personal- in one manila folder along with details of the Moriarti case.  He wanted to tell her.  He wanted to throw the file down in front of her and say ‘ _Look.  Your dad’s friend is a fucking bastard who has been working against him the entire time.’_  

The conversation took a different direction, though.  She was defiant and he was cocky, the clashing of their wills was the spark that ignited their misunderstanding.  Defiance and cockiness clashed once more over dinner, or rather an un-dinner.  His temper had gotten the better of him.  His temper and his curiosity.  He wanted to touch her, a chaste touch.  He had run his thumb over her lips, those trembling, pouty lips he wanted pressed against his own.  It was simple, but it scared her and that stung too.  But then he couldn’t imagine what else to expect.  She asked about his brother and he told her.  She had called his brother a monster and that had shocked him.  It was true, but the thought that she could sympathize with him, the man who she believed to have kidnapped her, was unimaginable to him.  He hoped then that she knew he wouldn’t hurt her. 

Fuck, he probably should have just told her as much, but this shit was going to take time.  And then it had struck him.  What exactly was he hoping to establish with her? Mutual understanding? Trust? He usually could give a fuck what people thought of him.  If someone called him a monster, he’d probably just laugh and maybe shrug his shoulders in acquiescence.  But her.  Hearing it from her had stirred something else in him.  Somehow he didn’t want her to think that of him.  Somehow the term wasn’t a badge he could wear with a fucked up sort of pride and honor, but rather he felt guilty, shamed, and angry.  More at himself than anyone else, but that anger had lashed out at her, which made her more fearful and that in turn made him angrier. 

When Sandor saw her the next day standing shyly in the parlor to meet him, he had been stunned into bumbling silence.  He felt like a bull in a china shop with her next to him in the car and then at Alonzo’s.  She was this beautiful thing and he was…well…a bull of a man trying his damndest to be delicate of all things with her.  One move made too sudden and she might flinch.  One pull on her arm too strong and she might cry out.  One agitated look at her and she might look back with fear filling her eyes.  Something had changed in Sansa though.  She looked at him then with a strange sort of curiosity and her eyes were no longer clouded with fear and doubt when she looked at him.  She was still confused, homesick, and reeling from what had happened, but she had taken a proverbially step towards him, a small offering to abandon just a bit of her defiance to meet him in the middle.  And so he took a small step away from cockiness. 

Indeed, something had changed in her and something was changing in him too.  When Alonzo busted his balls about Sansa being his girl, Sandor had froze.  He felt exposed, like everyone was staring at him and seeing something he couldn’t see.  Emilio’s leering had infuriated Sandor yet strangely it had driven Sansa towards him and seeking his protection.  Sandor obliged and only then did he start to doubt his original rationalization for seeking her out in the first place.  It had everything and nothing to do with Gregor.  Gregor wanted to hurt her and that was his place in all of this.  Sandor wanted to protect her and that was the driving force; a force that grew exponentially when he came face-to-face with Emilio and a force that erupted when shit went down.  In the end, it was Sandor who carried her away from danger and back towards a waiting car.  In a rare moment of letting his guard down completely, Sandor had fled headlong from cockiness and straight towards Sansa, not giving a shit if she was going to defy or reject him.  He had pulled her close to him, resting his forehead against hers, and screamed his apologies to her in his own head so loud that they eventually and inadvertently manifested as words on his exhaled breaths.  If she heard, he did not know and didn’t care in that moment. 

The days wore on and Sandor knew he needed to tell her the truth of everything.  It was a dangerous game he was playing, keeping her in the dark.  He had oscillated between believing that she was safer in the shadows and believing that the light of truth would be her savior if the day ever came that he couldn’t protect her.  Looking back, he knew he should have told her from the beginning.  He should have abandoned cockiness and pride from the get-go and just been straight with her.  Despite the eruption of chaos and monotonous formalities that ensued after Alonzo’s death and subsequent funeral, Sandor hadn’t sought Sansa out.  It had been his own fear that kept him away.  He had been busy, that was for damn sure, but deep down he knew why he kept away.  He was afraid; afraid that he could lay it all out to her and that she would still see him as a monster.  That maybe she wouldn’t give a fuck that the Royce party massacre hadn’t been his doing, that maybe she’d still see him as her captor.  For all intents and purposes, he was technically her captor, but the term gnawed at him in the middle of the night when he was left alone with his thoughts and had to face them once more. 

And it was in the middle of the night, when everything was slumberous and silent, that Sandor knew what he wanted and knew what he feared.  It had started as wanting to consume her then darted to wanting to know her, catapulted to wanting to protect her, and that had turned to wanting to make her happy, to see her smile, to make her trust him.  And trust started with truth.  So he had planned on telling her the truth over a lemon-infused dinner, something which had been a small culmination of his wants.  But beyond that, he wanted to know what she wanted.  She wanted to go home, he knew that, and he would take her home, but not if that meant putting her in danger.  He had planned on telling her that too.  Bringing her home meant reaching out to her father.  And that was going to be another matter for another day.  First, the truth needed to come and he had been fully prepared to give it. 

And just like that, she slipped through his fingers and willingly too.  His fears had been brought to life, a destiny manifested by countless nights tossing and turning against their push and pull.  _Let her go. She doesn’t want you._

It wasn’t a matter of want anymore, whether he wanted her or she wanted him.  It was a matter of need.  He didn’t need anyone, but he found himself feeling as though he needed her; a need brought on by her absence and the revived possibility that his brother had now taken something from him, but not something Sandor wanted.  Rather someone he needed. 

Sandor groaned as he brought a hand to his forehead and ran it slowly down his face until it rested under his chin.  His recollections and regrets were interrupted by a soft stirring behind him.  He heard the balcony door close gently and by the cadence of the steps approaching him, he knew it was his sister coming to seek him out. 

He was furious with her, absolutely irate with anger, but he didn’t have it in him to muster up that rage and throw it back at her.  Mirabelle would beat herself up enough for the both of them.  Besides, he wasn’t in the mood for talking, for arguing, for explanations and excuses.  He wanted to be left alone. 

Mirabelle fell in next to his side although she left a good three feet of space between them, obviously afraid to get too close to him.  With her body turned towards him, Sandor could see the abrupt rise and fall of her chest with each inhale and exhale of breath.  The sight of him elicited tears anew as she softly began to cry.  Although he didn’t shift his gaze towards her, Sandor could see her in the periphery of his vision; she stood there silent and sniffling like a child desperately seeking forgiveness. 

“Sandor, I’m so sorry,” Mirabelle whispered before dropping her head and bringing her hands to cradle her face as she wept, her body heaving with the rhythm of her sorrow and remorse. 

Saying nothing, Sandor bitterly shook his head slowly, indicating to her that this wasn’t the time.  If they had this conversation now, he was likely to say things he didn’t mean and she was likely to have her heart broken by him.  He didn’t want either of those things to happen so he kept his mouth shut. 

As the door behind them flew open with an enormous thud, Sandor spun around and instinctively grabbed for Mirabelle, ready to shield her from whatever was coming towards them. 

It was Bronn coming towards them with Zulu quick behind him, the glow of his laptop sending a soft halo of light to illuminate his face.

“We got him!,” Zulu shouted gleefully. “His phone was only on for maybe two minutes tops, but it was long enough to get coordinates from the GPS on his device.”

Stunned into a hazy silence of relief and disbelief, Sandor turned a wide-eyed stare to Bronn who shot him a satisfied smile.

 

 

“Let’s go get her, boss,” Bronn triumphantly urged with a knowing look gleaming in his eyes. 

* * *

Sansa had been listening to Nestor Royce’s squeals and screams for the past forty five minutes.  The large man sat in a brown rolling chair that looked like it hailed from the 1970’s.  It squeaked a shrill sound every time the large man shifted.  Sansa silently prayed that it would snap under his weight and one of the rusty pieces of metal holding it together would impale him. 

She doubted, somehow, that she would be so lucky.  The chair held his weight as he sat back and entertained himself with Nestor’s torturous treatment by two of his cronies.  They had been branding Nestor with cigarette burns in exchange for information. 

Nestor would scream preemptively every time the cherry-colored ember of a lit cigarette hovered over his skin.  He had done everything they asked him to do, Nestor would plead.  He had gathered all the information he could about Ned and the Moriarti case, he had rigged as much of it as he could, and finally he had brought them Sansa. 

Apparently, the information Nestor had acquired had gone missing, all the documents disappearing the night of the massacre.  The large man accused that Nestor had never really had all the information to begin with, this now famous manila folder was just an artifact of Nestor’s lies.  Mr. Royce had pleaded otherwise.  Now that Ned Stark had been made privy to Nestor’s under-the-table finagling, the case was shot to shit, the large man had explained.  The only reason Nestor was being kept alive was because they still hadn’t found Ned Stark.

Apparently, that didn’t spare Nestor from being beaten and riddled with burn marks.  By the way the large man chuckled with approval every time Nestor screamed, Sansa could tell that the man was enjoying himself with a sick sort of pleasure at other people’s pain.  She feared what he might do to her, what sort of sick pleasure he would get from her.  The thought made Sansa cross her legs together tightly.  She knew what pleasure he was going to get from her and it made her want to puke. 

With a squeaking sound, the large man shifted in his seat once more and leaned to the side as he picked up a heavy glass ash tray.  The man had been chain smoking cigarettes as he watched Nestor squirm in agony.  The huge glass ash tray was littered with orange cigarette butts set against grey ashes, but somehow the entire thing looked small in the large man’s hands. 

With slow, lingering paces, the large man made his way towards Nestor before crouching down in front of him.  Even in a crouching position, the large man towered over Nestor who now looked pathetically small in comparison.  Nestor Royce used to carry himself with his head held high, nose up in the air, and with the assured cockiness of a man who had convinced himself the entire world was under his thumb.  _‘How the mighty have fallen….’_

Nestor looked like a shell of that man as tears gushed from his frightened eyes and he slinked away from the large man as much as possible before pulling his knees to his chest in a fetal position.  Despite Nestor’s begging and pleading, the large man remained undaunted and unfazed as he lit up a cigarette and took a long pull with a devilish grin pulling across his cruel face.  The large man exhaled a puff of vaporous smoke in Nestor’s face before reaching out with one of his enormous hands and wrapping his fingers around Nestor’s throat.  Suddenly, Mr. Royce’s eyes snapped open and without hesitating, the large man shoved the lit cigarette into Nestor’s right eye. 

Instinctively, Sansa turned her head away as Nestor kicked and squealed like a pig.  However her eyes snapped up as she heard the wooden door to the left of her fling open and a man run through the door, his boots slamming against the ground with his eyes wide and a gun cradled in his hand. 

The large man shot an annoyed look at the man as he lifted himself to his feet, rising to the full and imposing height of his body.   

“What the _fuck_ do you want?,” he bellowed out on a voice that scarcely sounded human.

“You need to come quick,” the man replied as he struggled to catch his breath. 

Suddenly the large man turned to Nestor and swung a hard kick violently into Nestor’s side.  Over Nestor’s blood curdling screams, Sansa could have sworn she heard his bones breaking under the force.  Pointing a finger at one of the other men in the room, the large man barked out his commands.

“You stay here and watch them.”

The other man nodded curtly in response as he swung his assault rifle from his shoulder to rest in his hands.  Sansa had been unbound, apparently thought of as harmless.  As she eyed the heavy ash tray still placed next to Nestor, Sansa’s mind began to race with a dangerous scenario.  He was one man, but armed with an assault rifle.  Still her eyes kept drifting towards the ash tray.  She wondered if she could even do it, if she even had enough strength to take down a grown man with nothing more than a heavy piece of glass.  It would require precision of the hit and all of her body weight behind it. 

If she failed, he was likely to be irate and irritated. He may not kill her, but he would hurt her.  That was something she was sure of. 

If she succeeded, though…

The man with the rifle stared at Sansa and followed her gaze to the ashtray.  She let her eyes flutter away from it and settle on some random place in the room, trying her best to cover up the thoughts that had accompanied her lingering consideration of the ashtray.  She didn’t look at him, but she could tell he was staring at her, a silent warning that seemed to say ‘ _don’t even try it.’_

Sansa obeyed and kept still, but in the back of her head she let the ashtray remain and committed to memory its placement next to Nestor Royce.  If the man with the assault rifle had been smart, he would have moved it.  He hadn’t moved it though and instead kept his eyes on the door.  A small, hopeful smile crept across her lips.  Apparently, she was smarter than he was and she had every intention of using that to her advantage.

From a distance, Sansa could hear noises beginning to meander their way into the room she was in.  Straining her ears, she tried to puzzle out any recognition of what they were.  Nothing sprung to the forefront of her mind.  It sounded like an old building settling, the random creaks and groans of a structure that had stood too long.  Before long she began to hear more creaks, more groans, and the occasional pop.  The building was stirring with something, but what it was astir with she didn’t quite know. 

And then she heard the scream.  It was short and filled with a seething pain or perhaps even anger.  It was the sound of someone being hurt.  Sansa held her breath to listen.  No other noises came after that.  Shifting her stare to the armed man in the room, Sansa could tell he was scared and desperately trying to hide it. Over Nestor Royce’s whimpering, Sansa heard more screams now accompanied by the all too familiar popping sounds. 

“Oh god.  Oh no, not again,” Nestor moaned out as he writhed about the floor as best he could given he was still bound to the support beam and now probably blind in his right eye.

Sansa wanted to tell him to shut up and quit crying, wanted to tell him that none of this would be happening if it weren’t for him and his remarkable greediness over the years.  It was his own damn fault and she hated him for it all.  She didn’t know who she wanted to beat over the head with the ashtray more: Nestor or the armed guard. 

The popping sounds were growing louder now and she could hear men screaming out orders, a cacophony of directions which made Sansa’s head spin.  The directions were conflicting and intimated the chaos that was unfolding somewhere inside the building; go here, head down there, tell so-and-so to get their ass over here, don’t fucking come any closer.  Multiple men were desperately shouting out these orders, no doubt adding to the confusion that was steadily surmounting as some unknown foe made its way towards the room. 

The guard in the room was getting antsy, shifting back and forth on his feet as he clung to his gun like a child clutches to a blanket or stuffed animal when scared.  Sansa zeroed in on his fear, a welcome distraction to her own and slowly let her eyes creep towards the ashtray once more.  It was still where it was before and while she wasn’t about to attack an armed man, she was going to wait until he faltered and then she would take the opportunity to fight back.  She had come too far to stop fighting now. 

 

 

Succumbing to his growing uneasiness, the guard sighed out an anxious and impatient breath before pacing towards the door and peering out into the hallway.  Sansa didn’t know when she had grown so bold, but without a second thought, she scurried across the floor and snatched up the ashtray, sending plumes of ash and a confetti of cigarette butts to go flying towards the floor as she armed herself with the only thing she could fight with.  If she had to fight her way out, that’s damn well what she was going to do then.

* * *

Sitting in the driver’s seat of the car parked in front of Moriarti’s mansion, Sandor had to punch the GPS coordinates in twice because he didn’t believe what he was seeing the first time he saw it.  The estimated time of arrival was about forty minutes from now.  No wonder he hadn’t been able to catch up with her after driving frantically for hours.  By the time Mirabelle got back to the Moriarti house and told him what happened, Sansa had probably already been where she was hopefully at now. 

Bronn shrugged his shoulders in the seat next to him, lifting his eyes to Sandor and letting his lips curl into a half smile.  Without a word, Sandor put the car in drive and sped from the drive way, hoping to every fucking God known to man that she would be in the same location as Nestor Royce’s cell phone.  The thought that she might not be with Nestor Royce danced in the back of his mind, taunting him with its very real possibility; the possibility that Sandor would bust down the door of whatever building resided at the GPS coordinates and there would be a cell phone, but no Nestor.  Or worse, no Sansa.  He couldn’t anticipate what he might do if he got there and she was gone.  He couldn’t think about that now, not while he was so close. 

Sandor shook his head to release the thoughts and pulled at the neck of his white button down shirt.  He hadn’t had a chance to change out of his funeral clothes. The dress shirt felt tight against his neck and the black pants were chaffing against his skin.  Despite the chill to the air, he was hot, sweating bullets.  Keeping his eyes on the road the best he could, Sandor pulled off his dress shirt and untucked the white cotton T-shirt that was underneath.  The car felt claustrophobic to him, heavy with humidity and rising tension. 

A convoy of his men followed him into the night, none asking questions or raising concerns, but eagerly grabbing weapons and piling into cars.  They may not understand Sandor’s sense of urgency or what was at stake, but they understood that he needed them there to back him up.  And back him up they did as they piled into cars and headed towards some unknowable and uncertain fate. 

As the gap of time closed between the GPS estimated time of arrival and the time on the clock, Sandor’s heart began to beat faster.  They were in the middle of nowhere, but steadily nearing an abandoned industrial warehouse that had sat empty for years in the middle of the desert.  It couldn’t be where Gregor was operating from; Sandor knew that for damn sure.  It was undoubtedly a temporary holding point before he moved on to his next destination. 

Bronn glanced at the GPS and then lifted his eyes out the windshield, leaning forward and furrowing his brow as he scrutinized their desolate whereabouts.   

“It has to be that right over there,” Bronn said as he pointed towards the industrial warehouse hovering ominously in the distance.  Sandor nodded in agreement and flipped open his cell phone which had been sitting on his lap.  Scanning through his contacts until he got to Marco’s number, Sandor pressed his finger to the screen and brought the phone to his ear, waiting for the man to pick up.  After a half ring, Marco attentively answered, having been on standby as he followed along in one of the other cars. 

“It’s that industrial warehouse,” Sandor declared into the phone.  “We’ll need to slow our speed and turn our headlights off.  Send the word to have guns at the ready.”

At that, Sandor flipped his phone closed as he flicked his headlights off and slowed his roll.  The entire area was obscured by darkness, the outside lights having long ago been shut off for good.  For that, Sandor was grateful as he rolled past a dilapidated gate that had been left open.  Gregor was calculated and despite his brutality, had impeccable soldier’s instincts.  His greatest weakness was his men.  They were sloppy and stupid.  Shit like leaving a gate open was going to get them killed, as they were soon going to find out. 

Sandor didn’t possess the same brutish strength and cruel brutality that his brother did, but Sandor was a hell of a lot smarter about how he handled his men.  Despite his almost insatiable eagerness to get on the road after having found Nestor’s location, Sandor had made sure to organize his men; assigning ‘captains’ to each car, delegating tasks and chains of command, and establishing a communication network to quickly relay information while they were on the road.  His men were ready and knew full well what they were getting themselves into, Sandor had made sure of that and that was his advantage against Gregor. 

The convoy of Sandor’s men slowed to a halt alongside a darkened side of the warehouse.  Sandor remained in the car, scrutinizing the darkness through the windshield.  Gregor’s men were just stupid enough to eagerly and blindly come running out if they saw cars pulling up.  For many moments, Sandor sat and waited for any signs of stirring, any indication that a group of trigger-happy men were going to bust out of the building.  Nothing came though and Sandor shifted his stare towards Bronn in the seat next to him.  Flashing a _‘fuck yeah, let’s do this’_ kind of smile, Bronn slowly pushed open his door.  Sandor followed suit along with the driver’s of the other cars.  The men fell in next to Sandor’s side as their eyes cascaded over the abandoned building, mentally sizing up the scenarios that could go down in there. 

“We can’t just go running in,” Sandor began in a hushed, low tone.  “We don’t know how many men he has with him.  We don’t know where they’re positioned in the building.  We need to get them to come to us.”

Sandor scanned the faces of his men as they nodded their heads in agreement.  This was the difference between Sandor’s men and Gregor’s men.  Sandor made sure his men had a good dose of common sense and a good head on their shoulders.  They were seasoned in “street battle” as they called it and the level of trust between him and his men was well established before they entered the heat of battle together.

“How are we going to do that?,” Marco inquired as he brought his hands to his hips and stared up at the building, pondering its size with a small glimmer of hesitance in his eyes.

“We need to get their attention,” Sandor replied although he wasn’t exactly sure how he wanted to do that.  Bronn stepped forward with a smug smile lining his lips as he held his hand out for the car keys.

“I’ve got an idea.  Get the men readied.  I’ll pull the car up to that shipping and receiving door there.” Bronn pointed towards the side of the building. Sandor followed Bronn’s finger to a set of two doors big enough to accommodate the back end of a semi-truck. Situated next to the cargo doors were a set of smaller doors.  Their position on the side of the building was as good as any and hadn’t seemed to raise any red flags thus far.  Sandor shoved his hand into his pocket and tossed Bronn his car keys. 

Marco set into the task of readying the men, making sure guns were loaded and cocked and everyone was adequately shielded behind open car doors.  Situating a silencer on his gun, Sandor watched as Bronn slowly rolled the car up next to the shipping and receiving door.  Leaning across the seat, Bronn popped open the passenger side door before swinging open the driver’s side door. 

Suddenly, the sound of music filled air, the speakers blaring “ _Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangsta”_ into the night. The car seemed to rattle ever so slightly with the bumping of bass as Bronn ran like a bat out of hell back towards Sandor who was crouched behind the open passenger side door of Marco’s car.  Bronn situated himself behind the open driver’s side door of the same car and flashed an amused look towards Sandor with a shrug of his shoulders.  Sandor returned a half smile as he shook his head and mouthed _‘Really?’_   Bronn had a certain _flair_ that Sandor had become accustomed to.  It was only funny because it usually worked out in their favor.  The amusement was short lived as three men came running head long out of the shipping and receiving door, jumping down onto the loading dock and looking utterly confused at the abandoned car blaring music.  Steadying his gun towards one of the men circling the car, Sandor pulled the trigger and watched as the man fell to the ground.  With wide-eyed stares, the other men froze in their tracks as they stared at the body of their friend with a hole blown into his head.  Sandor and Bronn took the opportunity to take down the other two men who hadn’t even enough time to reach for their own weapons.  _Stupidity will get you killed._

From his position Sandor could see the drivers, and declared captains, of each car.  Using silent military signals, Sandor communicated their next movement.  Two cars full of men would flank the right side of the building, two cars full would flank the left, the rest would enter through the now unmanned shipping and receiving door.  Gregor’s men would be surrounded and regardless of which exit they were forced through, the outcome would be the same; they would be faced with Sandor’s men, armed and ready for a fight. 

Nodding their understanding, Sandor’s captains set about commanding their groups of men.  Just as directed, Sandor watched as a third of his men pressed their backs against the side of the building to the left, and a third of his men did the same on the right.  Silently and swiftly, the men disappeared around the far corners of the building, guns up and ready.  Sandor allowed a small smile of pride to pull on his lips.  His men looked like some sort of Seal Team 6, ready to bust down some doors and take some of these fuckers out.  They were organized, they were smart, and they were out for blood.     

As “ _Damn It Feels Good To Be A Gangsta”_ wore on, Sandor motioned his head towards the rest of his men to follow him towards the shipping and receiving doors.  Crouched down and running as best they could with guns clutched tightly in their hands, Sandor led his men out into the open until they reached his car, still blaring music.  As his men piled behind the car, obscuring themselves as much as possible, Sandor quickly and deftly reached into the car and turned the radio off.  Sandor scrutinized the shipping and receiving entrance in front of them.  He didn’t know the layout of the building, but he imagined that the shipping and receiving entrance would lead them to a stock room of sorts.  Maybe an open area, but potentially filled with shelves, boxes, or remnants of the warehouse’s past functionality.  The best option was to sweep flanks from the inside too. 

Shifting his stare between Bronn and Marco in turn, Sandor kept his voice down as he gave the command.

“Bronn, take Disco and Half Stroke’s men to the left.  Marco, your men and Awol’s men come with me.  We’ll flank to the right.”

With a curt nod and silent signals, Bronn and Marco got their men on board before turning once more to Sandor, awaiting the signal to move. 

“Alright.  Let’s do the damn thing,” Sandor rasped before sucking in a deep breath and leading the way. 

The first few moments were the most dangerous, Sandor knew.  They had no idea what was awaiting them on the other side of the door.  It could be a hail of bullets from Gregor’s men, although Sandor doubted it.  Unless they wised up between now and Royce’s party, Sandor doubted they’d be awaiting him behind the doors. 

After a few quickened paces, they had silently traversed the distance between Sandor’s car and the side of the building. Sandor’s half of the men had pressed themselves against the wall and to the right of the double doors, Bronn’s half of the men were pressed against the left side.  Sandor exchanged a look with Bronn, each of them staring from either side of the door.  Both were panting from the sudden rush of adrenaline, almost giddy despite the sense of danger that was hanging heavy in the air. 

“Now or never, boss,” Bronn breathed as he motioned his head towards the door. 

At that, Sandor swung the flat of his foot to meet the door which flew open from the brutal force. His eyes frantically darted about the room in every direction.  He had exchanged his silenced glock for an assault rifle and was sweeping it across the room along with the movement of his eyes.

As Sandor led the way towards the right side of the wall, he realized his intuition about the building had been right.  The area was more or less a large open space with tall, empty metal shelves situated in the middle.  Through the opening on the shelves, Sandor could see the open space was unmanned.  The men that came running out of the building like a bunch of fucking idiots were clearly the only ones who had been positioned at this point in the building.  Sandor almost could have laughed.  If Gregor only spared three men to man this large of a space, that hopefully meant he didn’t have the entire force of his men with him. 

A row of offices were situated at the far end of the stock area, the inside visible through large panes of glass.  In another pathetic display of a rookie move, Gregor’s men had turned the lights on in those offices and left the doors wide open.  From across the stockroom, Sandor could see copies of Playboy sitting open on the office desks amongst crumpled cans of Red Bull.  Beyond that, the offices were blessedly empty and that meant it was one less area Sandor needed to concern himself with. 

Heavy metal doors were situated on either side of the stockroom, one on the left side wall and one on the right.  Sandor and Bronn led their men in a single file line on their respective sides of the stockroom as they swept towards the metal doors.  Sandor felt another wave of adrenaline course through his veins as he readied himself to bust through the door.  Whereas he could anticipate what was on the other side of the shipping and receiving door, Sandor had no idea what awaited him on the other side of this door. 

Sucking in a breath, Sandor reached towards the door knob with his left hand as he steadied his rifle in his right hand.  In one swift motion, Sandor flung the door open and pulled himself back, pushing his back against the wall as he waited for gunfire or the sound of shuffling.  From across the room, Sandor could see that Bronn had done the same and through Bronn’s open door, Sandor could see a dimly lit hallway that, much like the rest of the stockroom, was empty.  By the way Bronn nodded his head and gave a relieved half smile, Sandor imagined the same was true on his side. 

With that, Sandor carefully crept his way into the empty hall.  The walls had been painted white, but with age, abandonment, and the assault of the elements, they were now a yellow-beige color and spotted with mold.  The pieces of intact drop ceiling were stained brown from dripping water.  From somewhere off in the distance, Sandor heard the popping of gunfire.  Bronn and his men were apparently met with a warm welcome. 

More pops came from a distance as Sandor made his way to the end of the hallway which took a sharp turn to the left before expanding into another long corridor.  At the end of the corridor was another door, but this one had a small square window situated at head height.  Through the small window, Sandor could see light pouring through from beyond the other side of the door.  The room beyond was a large open area it seemed, and through the window Sandor could see one of Gregor’s men sitting on a fold out table, legs swinging and laughing as if engaged in conversation. 

Sandor and his men eased their way down the hallway with backs flush against the wall, guns drawn up and ready for what was an assured battle on the other side of the door.  Once more, Sandor readied himself as he pressed his back against the wall.  He set a determined glare on the door before swinging the flat of his foot up and kicking it open. 

Immediately, Sandor released a spray of bullets towards the man who had been sitting on the fold up table.  As the man slumped against the wall behind him, Sandor instinctively swept the barrel of his gun towards the direction the man had been talking.  His eyes were met with the end of the man’s gun, but Sandor squeezed his finger deftly on the trigger before the other man could properly aim. 

From all around him, Sandor heard the deafening noise of gun shots bellowing their echoes throughout the large space.  Gregor’s men came from all directions, spilling out of doorways and hallways in a steady stream.  Without command, Sandor’s men had split up to man each of the entrances in the large area, which were four in total. 

Sandor steadied his gaze on a long corridor that was in front of him.  At the end of it, light was streaming from underneath a closed door.  The rest of the hallway was enrobed in darkness.  Through the shadows, Sandor saw him lurking like a demon in the darkness. 

The hair on Sandor’s arms stood on end as the shadow of his brother shifted in the darkened hall.  Gregor was no more surprised to see Sandor than Sandor was to see him.  Suddenly, Sandor felt a stinging pain graze across his right shoulder as a bullet whizzed by him and implanted itself in the wall in front of him.  Agitated more than anything, Sandor shifted gaze over his shoulder and extended his right arm as he released a flurry of bullets to the fucker who was behind him.  The man fell to the floor wide eyed and clutching at his bleeding chest.  Turning his attention back to the hallway, Sandor felt his blood run cold as he heard an all-too-familiar laugh bellow from the hallway to meet his ears.  Instantly, Sandor was taken back to the day he had come upon Gregor beating the shit out of a helpless Mirabelle, the day Gregor shoved his face into fire laughing all the while. 

Feeling as though he had lost control of his body, Sandor felt his legs carrying him towards the hallway, the rage pumping through him and propelling him forward towards the shadowed form of his brother.  Gregor’s steps were slow and methodical whereas Sandor’s were hurried an enraged.  As their forms collided, Sandor went tumbling to the ground with Gregor falling on top of him.  Both struggled against one another, throwing elbows and knees, but gaining nothing as strength met strength in an entanglement of limbs.  Sandor felt Gregor’s weight lift slightly from on top of him as the man grabbed for his weapon and Sandor took the opportunity to scramble from underneath his brother and jump to his feet. 

Each steadied their weapons at one another, both settling furious glares at one another as they panted. 

“Puppy brother wants a fight,” Gregor taunted at Sandor with a grumbling voice as he inched towards him, glowering at Sandor from over the top of his gun.

Sandor spit to the ground at his brother’s feet and tightened the grip on his rifle slightly before growling out his own response.

“You want to fucking kill me, then kill me.  Pull the trigger and be done with it.  How many opportunities have you had to put a bullet in my head and me the same with you? If I murder you, I’m doing it with my hands so I can watch you fucking die, just like you watched our father die, you _fucking cunt_.”

At that, Gregor lowered his weapon and tossed his head back in a laugh before reaching out and grabbing Sandor by the shirt, yanking him forward so that his face hovered in front of Sandor’s. 

“If that’s how you want your pathetic, shit-filled life to end, then so be it.  I’ll gladly squeeze the life out of you, like I did him.” 

Sandor could feel hot spurts of Gregor’s agitated breath hitting his face as he clenched his fist tighter around the front of Sandor’s shirt.  In the darkness their eyes met, searching each other out and setting enraged stares on one another.  The anger flowing between them was primal.  It was brutal.  And it ended when one of them was laid out lifeless on the floor. 

In a crescendo of fury, the two collided once more, Sandor dropping his gun and swinging the first fist which cracked across Gregor’s face. The man seemed to barely flinch as he swung a fist past Sandor’s face.  While Gregor was stronger than him, Sandor had his brother beat in speed.  He wasn’t quick and agile compared to normal men, but his brother was no normal man.  In comparison, Sandor was faster and he had every intention of using that to his advantage. 

With a symphony of gunshots in the background, Sandor and Gregor weaved around one another, landing punches here, dodging them there, and groaning out in frustration or pain with each pass. Sandor felt himself getting more winded and less coherent as the minutes wore on.  By the way Gregor’s body seemed to move like a bag of potatoes through water, Sandor knew he was losing stamina too. 

Screaming out in something like a war cry, Gregor lunged towards Sandor with what he hoped was Gregor’s last burst of energy.  Sandor lifted his hands to shield himself the best he could against Gregor’s weight slamming into him.  He felt Gregor’s fingers curling around his arms as he swung Sandor around, the two men now having switched their positions within the hallway. 

Swinging his knee up, Sandor landed blows in the middle of Gregor’s stomach and watched as his brother hunched over slightly with each hit.  From behind him, Sandor heard a door open, the door at the end of the hall more than likely.  With his survival instincts sharpening out of desperation, Sandor watched as Gregor’s focus shifted momentarily and his eyes narrowed in annoyance at something behind Sandor.  Using the moment to his advantage, Sandor swung his weight to the right, the pure inertia of the movement loosened Gregor’s grip on him and sent Sandor to the ground behind Gregor. 

As Sandor careened to the floor he could hear the resonating sound of a single bullet.  At first he was sure he was hit, but it wasn’t until Gregor screamed out in rage and stumbled to the floor in a kneeling position that Sandor realized his brother had been sniped in the leg.  Lifting his head up slightly and reaching for his gun, Sandor saw a man at the end of the hall hovering in the door frame with his eyes wide in a look of fear and his mouth hanging open, in shock that the bullet that was meant for Sandor had somehow found itself in Gregor who was screaming out curses. 

In one instinctual movement, Sandor swung his gun up and released a stream of bullets to the man at the end of the hall.  Rising to his feet, Sandor watched as Gregor swung one of his enormous arms towards Sandor who jumped back to avoid the impact.  Lifting his gun, Sandor battered the butt of his rifle against the side of Gregor’s head.  He had every intention of killing his brother, every fiber of his body screamed for him to do it, but Sandor was violently snapped out of focus as he heard a voice screaming from the room at the end of the hallway. 

_“Run, Sansa! Go, now!”_

 

 

Sandor felt his vision blur momentarily at the sound of her name.  His breath came in ragged pulls as his head struggled to process it all.  With a tidal wave of clarity slamming into him, Sandors eyes went wide as the haze of elated confusion cleared away and his heart began to pound violently within his chest.  Suddenly, the prospect of the killing his brother slipped from his mind as he rushed down the hall way. 

* * *

From the corner of her vision, she could see Nestor gaping at her, his blackened and blood-shot eyes staring up at her in dread as his mouth hung open in confusion.  The thought that he might speak, might try to tell her to stop had crossed her mind. 

She didn’t care and ignored the thought and ignored him as she crept towards the guard who was hovering in the doorway.  This was her chance and it may very well be the only chance she would get.  Sansa wasn’t about to screw it up because Nestor Royce was silently pleading with her to stop and to sit back down.  Tip-toeing past the Nestor, Sansa clutched the ashtray in her hands as she eased towards the guard.  The glass was warming under her touch and Sansa gripped it harder against her clammy palms.  One hit.  One _hard_ hit and he would hopefully be down long enough that she could get away. 

From the opened door, Sansa could hear the sound of groaning and shuffling in the hallway.  A slam here, a deep grumble there, scuffling of feet, and the blunt sound of bodies colliding into each other.   A struggle was ensuing somewhere down the hall and that thought alone sent a cold splintering of doubt to fracture through her.  It was small at first, a tiny faltering of hope whose spindling appendages spread through her and cracked her resolve like a rock hitting glass.  Lowering the ashtray and stepping backwards a few tiny steps, Sansa felt her heart sink to the lowest imaginable pit of her stomach.

Before she could bemoan the opportunity that had slipped through her fingers, Sansa suddenly heard a popping sound and snapped her head towards the door.  The guard slowly slumped to the ground, bending slightly at the knees as his head rolled backwards and finally his body collapsed to the ground face down. 

The instinct to flee coursed through her, pumping through her body and sending her thoughts racing through her head.  Nestor swiveled his head towards her and let out a frenzied scream in a voice that hardly sounded his own.

“Run, Sansa! Go, now!”

He didn’t have to tell her, didn’t have to scream for her to flee.  Her body was already sending her legs moving towards the metal door situated at the back of the room.  Whatever danger lurked in the hallway, she didn’t know and wasn’t about to find out.    

Sansa dashed towards the back door, stumbling over her own feet as her knees wobbled in protest at the suddenness of her movements, her mind light years ahead of her body which was desperately trying to keep up with the chaos of her thoughts. 

As she flung the door open, Sansa could hear Nestor screaming for her to come back for him.  His screams dissolved to the back of her mind, drowned by her own mind screaming at her to get out.  A rusty metal staircase led down to the ground below.  Sansa nearly lost her footing as she flew down the stairs, jumping from the second to last step before quite literally hitting the ground running. 

She could barely breathe as she turned the corner of the large building and fled towards a smaller building half a hundred paces away.  Her legs felt like jello beneath her as they pounded against the ground and kicked up plumes of dust.  Sansa couldn’t help the whimpering sounds that escaped her trembling lips as she ran like hell towards the smaller building.  She wanted to hide away, wanted to cry, wanted to lie down and let her heart stop pounding against her chest.  For as composed as she had been earlier, Sansa let herself unravel and felt the flush of terror she had been staving off since coming to this terrible place.  Like a levee breaking, the force of her fear hit Sansa all at once and threatened to drown her in its violent suddenness. 

As she neared the small, abandoned building furthest away from where she had been, Sansa cut to the right and turned the corner to run along the far end of the building.  A chain-link fence expanded to her left a few feet away and the building stood to her right.  Blinking away at tears that had started to form, Sansa squinted her eyes towards the expanse of a fence in front of her. 

Sansa felt her legs finally give in to exhaustion as she slowed her pace to a stop and let herself succumb to the tears that had been welling up in her eyes.  With her chest heaving in sobs, Sansa looked up at the fence and realized it spanned the perimeter of the abandoned lot.  The only way out was back from where she had come.  She couldn’t go back that way. Fear and death were the only things that awaited her if she did. 

Overwhelmed with defeat and desperation, Sansa let out a mewling whimper as she wiped away tears with the back of her hand in a futile effort to comfort herself.  From behind her, Sansa heard dirt and rocks crackle beneath the weight of someone’s feet.  In an instant, she gasped, sucking in a breath to extinguish the whimpering sound that had accompanied her tears.  Uncontrolled and gripped with a blinding fear, Sansa began to tremble and squeezed her eyes shut, willing this all to be a nightmare.  One big, terrible nightmare that started with the Royce party and ended here.  As she opened her eyes once more, Sansa was again staring at the fence, the culmination of all her fears weaved together with metal and staring coldly back at her. 

The movement behind her had slowed to a stop and even from a distance she could hear the panting exhale of breath.  Still shaking like a leaf, Sansa pulled in a ragged breath and let her eyes fall to the ground before slowly beginning to turn around and face whatever was lurking behind her.  

With a slow, hesitant sweep, Sansa lifted her eyes and felt her knees wobble beneath her as she saw him standing there. 

Sandor’s chest heaved with something between exhaustion and exhilarated relief as he stared at her, his eyes softening with desperate need and his mouth twitching slightly at the corner.  He looked a bloody mess; his right arm dripping streams of blood and his white T-shirt splattered with red dots and smears. 

With tears streaming from her eyes and down her cheeks burning hot, Sansa stared at him in her own sort of disbelief.  He had come for her.  He didn’t have to; he could have read her note, thought she was going home and let her go, but somehow he knew and he came for her.  And now it was she who softened with her own desperate need, a need that coursed through her and manifested as a desire to be close to him, to be in his arms before she awoke from this daydream.  She feared this was nothing more than a mirage; as if he were her mind’s cruel manifestation of all the unacknowledged feelings, the fleeting thoughts that would spring up when he was around only to be shoved to the back of her mind to play out in dreams. 

Sansa felt the lump in her throat forming, burning its way up as her lips began to tremble furiously.  She tried to bite back the stream of tears, but a soft mewling sound escaped her lips and then all bets were off.  The tears spilled from her eyes in gushes and her body quaked where she stood; a steady quivering that started in her knees, ran through her middle section leaving butterflies in its wake before setting in on her shoulders and now her lips.

The sound of her cries prompted Sandor to start walking towards her, his steps quick and steady and filled with yearning.  Unable to fight back her composure and not really wanting to, Sansa exhaled out a sob and set her legs in motion towards him, eager to close the distance between them.  Where her steps were wobbly, his were strong and within a few quickened paces, the distance had closed between them. 

In an instant, her arms sought him out, reaching for him only to find she was already in his arms, which had instantaneously wrapped her up in an embrace.  Feeling one of his hands pressed against her back and the other protectively cradling her head, Sansa melted into the warmth of his embrace, pressing her face against his chest and letting the tears fall from her eyes only to be eagerly absorbed by his T-shirt.  Her senses danced with a dizzying relief as she breathed in the scent of his lingering cologne, felt the warmth of his arms around her, heard the steady thrumming of his heart beating loud in her ear, tasted the salty tears pouring down her cheeks and to her lips, and lifted her eyes to see him looking down at her with an astounded gaze that suggested he never wanted to let her go.  

Sansa felt his arms wrap tighter around her as he pulled her deeper into their embrace, gently tucking her head against his chest once more and resting his chin on top of her head.  As she allowed herself to sink into his arms, Sansa felt him stir as he slowly lifted his chin from the top of her head and set his eyes on her once more, as if checking to make sure it was really her. 

Wordlessly, he adjusted his hold on her, shifting one arm around her shoulders and bending down slightly to place the other behind her knees before he scooped her up into his arms.  Instinctively, Sansa’s arms snaked around his shoulders as she pressed the side of her cheek against his neck and interlaced her fingers in the long strands of his hair.  She could feel his pulse beating against her cheek, his skin warm and damp with a sheen of sweat.  Closing her eyes, Sansa breathed him in once more and felt the subtle movements of her body as he carried her away.  She had no idea where he was going and didn’t bother to even open her eyes to see.  Cradled against his body, her form seemed so small in his, but Sansa felt safe in his arms and cared for besides.  Her first encounters with him seemed so far away, a distant and strange memory almost as if from a past life.  The way she feared him, the way she thought him a monster, the way she had told herself that she hated him.  It melted away as she was surrounded by the strength of his arms once more saving her from those who wished her harm.  Suddenly, the movement stopped and Sansa let her eyes flutter open before she lifted her head from his shoulder.  They were standing next to his car, the passenger door was open and as Sansa let her focus sweep beyond the car, she saw clusters of Sandor’s men piling back into their own cars, many with a thousand-mile stares seemingly lost in a flurry of their own thoughts. 

With sure footing and a surprising gentleness, Sandor stepped towards the open door and let his hold on her loosen slightly as if to lower her to the ground.  Sansa clasped her arms tightly around his shoulders, aching at the thought of an eventual release from his embrace.  Eagerly obliging her subtle command for closeness and pressing her against him once more, Sandor exhaled a small laugh which rustled through her hair. 

“You have to let go of me long enough to get in the car, little bird.”

His voice was warm and deep, its sound felt like being submerged in hot water after having been out in the cold for so long and sent a wave of tingles to work their way up her spine. 

Sansa nodded against his neck and dipped her head down as he gently placed her in the passenger seat of his car.  When she finally unwound her arms from his shoulder, Sandor shut the door and circled in front of the car to the driver’s side before climbing in. 

The drive back was done in a daze, for her and for Sandor.  Sansa sunk back and pulled her legs up on the seat, her body facing towards Sandor on the driver’s side.  Entranced and exhausted, Sansa watched the subtle movements he made; the way his left arm draped over the wheel and flicked here and there to put on the blinker, the way he rested his right arm on the center console and leaned his weight into it, the way he’d lean forward slightly to scrutinize the side view mirror before he merged on the highway, the way he’d narrow his eyes at the rearview mirror every now and then. 

As the highway lights spilled into the car, Sansa noticed the peering of ink from underneath the blood on his right arm.  She had never seen him in a short sleeve shirt before and only now did she notice the tattoo peeking out from underneath his sleeve.  She couldn’t make out what it was; all she could tell was that it extended right above his elbow and towards his shoulder before disappearing underneath his shirt. 

Lifting her gaze, Sansa felt the redness flushing across her cheeks as she saw his eyes had drifted to her.  Before her eyes would flutter away, either in embarrassment or fear, whenever he looked at her.  Now Sansa felt her stomach flip as he gazed at her, every now and then letting his eyes focus on the road before eventually turning back towards her.  Sitting up straight, Sandor shifted his elbow from the center console and let his arm fall to his side. 

 

 

Feeling the distance now put between them, Sansa steadied her stare towards her lap and her hands folded nervously there.  Suddenly, Sandor’s hand reached over the center console and found its way to her hand.  Although his eyes remained focused on the road and his face remained stoic as ever, Sansa felt as his fingers interlaced in hers and wrapped her hand up in their warmth.  Feeling a girlish smile form on her lips, Sansa shyly lifted her gaze to him and although he kept his eyes on the road ahead, she saw the corner of his mouth pull into a relieved and satisfied smile. 

* * *

Sandor stared at the bloody white T-shirt laid out on the bed.  Whether it was his brother’s blood or his own blood, he couldn’t say for sure.  Probably a combination of both, the good and the evil of the Clegane family painted on a canvas of white cotton.  Droplets of water fell from the damp tendrils of Sandor’s hair and ran down his chest, collecting on the patches of chest hair before trailing down his abdomen to the towel around his waist. 

He had wanted to talk to Sansa right way, to sit her down and divulge everything he had stupidly held on to for far too long.  He was a bloody mess and she was so badly shaken that they both needed a second to wrap their heads around everything that had happened.  It was Alberto’s suggestion and one that was met with hesitance by both him and Sansa.  In the end, Sandor had led Sansa upstairs and stopped in the hallway outside of her bedroom door. 

“I’ll be right across the hall,” he had told her as he lifted a hand to cup her cheek, running his thumb lightly across her cheek bone.  “I just need to clean up and then I’ll come for you.” She had given him a forlorn nod at that, letting her eyes fall to the ground as she whispered okay and retreated into the bedroom across the hall from his. 

It seemed to him that she didn’t want to be out of his sight; no more than he wanted to let her out of his sight.  Then again she couldn’t very well hop into the shower with him so that he could keep an eye on her there. 

Sandor let out an amused laugh at that and shook his head before letting the towel drop from his waist to the floor.  His right arm had stopped bleeding from where the bullet had grazed his skin.  Had he been standing a few inches to the left, he would have taken the bullet straight to the back, probably right into a lung.  The fact that he and his men had not only gotten out of there alive, but had also found Sansa was nothing short of miraculous.  Granted Half-Stroke and Zulu had both taken non-life threatening bullets to their bodies, his men had more or less returned unscathed. 

After pulling on boxers, Sandor scrutinized the wound on his right arm in the mirror.  It would heal, but the skeletal figure of a robed grim reaper on his right arm was going to look worse for the wear. Nothing his tattoo artist couldn’t fix, but that would have to wait.  Sandor pulled on a black T-shirt and jeans before toweling off the residual dampness of his hair.  A small smile crept across his lips as he remembered the way Sansa had let her fingers intertwine with strands of his hair, the way she had clung to him tighter when he tried to let her go, the way she smiled when he took her hand in the car.  In the back of his mind, Sandor knew how things could have gone, how they could have ended in blood and tragedy.  Pushing away those thoughts, he reminded himself that the events of the evening hadn’t veered towards tragedy, but he knew all too well that he would lie awake tonight, haunted by the thoughts of what _could_ have happened.  For now though, he indulged himself in the thoughts of Sansa and all the sweetness he had never expected to get from her, but was more than willing to take. 

When he knocked on her bedroom door, Sandor felt a flush of nervousness; nerves at having been away from her for a grand total of 20 minutes and nerves at all he needed to tell her.  As Sansa opened the door, Sandor saw that she had changed into a loose fitting tank top and yoga pants, her hair pulled up off her shoulders and into a pony tail.  Biting her lip, she stared up at him, waiting for him to say something. 

“Can we talk?,” Sandor asked, shoving his hands in his pockets and feeling suddenly like a teenage kid again.  He was used to being blunt and rough with women; telling them what he wanted and expecting them to oblige.  He wasn’t used to this and didn’t quite know what the fuck he was doing.  He hoped that Sansa didn’t pick up on that; on the fact that he could bust into a building full of armed men that wanted to kill him and barely bat an eye at it, but yet he was nervous standing here in front of her. 

By the way she smiled up at him as she nodded, he imagined she could tell, but was too polite and too sweet to call him out on it.  Instead, she followed after Sandor as he led her down the hallway and began up the stairs to the third level of the house.  Sansa gave him a wide-eyed stare as she swept her gaze over her should to the stairs that led to the first level.  Sandor motioned his head towards the staircase in front of him and extended his hand to her.  Taking tiny steps towards him, Sansa slowly lifted her hand and placed it in his before timidly bringing her eyes up to meet his.  Sandor let his fingers curl around her hand as he returned her gaze and let his lips flinch into a half smile.  Reassured by this and letting the tension in her body go, Sansa followed him up the stairs and down the hall towards his office. 

His office was dimly lit by the desk lamp which feebly tried to fill the room with its light, but succeeded only in casting strange shadows about the walls.  Sansa stood where she was as her eyes roamed about the room, clearly surprised at the normalcy of his office.  There weren’t walls full of weapons displays, his desk wasn’t piled with cocaine on top of it.  Instead the walls were adorned with bookshelves displaying books, file folders, and some decorative crap Mirabelle had insisted on putting in there.  And his desk was piled with stacks of papers and folders next to his computer.

Seeing his suit jacket draped across the back of his chair, Sandor grabbed it before leading Sansa out onto the balcony that attached to his office.  The air was chilly and Sandor saw as Sansa wrapped her arms about her chest and rubbed her arms.  Sandor stepped towards her and draped his coat over her shoulders and smiled a bit at how big it was on her.  The damn thing nearly swallowed her whole.  Whispering a thank you as she wrapped herself up in his jacket, Sansa’s gaze seemed to settle on the view from the balcony.  Granted the Moriarti mansion wasn’t situated in the most populous area, the view was still incredible from up here.  The night sky seemed to glow from the distant city lights, the darkness punctured with the twinkling of red, green, yellow, and gold lights smattered across the desert horizon.  The mountains loomed dark in the distance as they sat against the deep navy blue of the sky. 

Sandor pulled a chair over for Sansa to sit and watched as she slowly lowered herself in the seat, looking up at him shyly yet with grief beginning to pool in her blue eyes.  Sitting down next to her and turning his chair so that he could face her, Sandor began rummaging through all the mental notes he had made in his head.  Earlier in the evening, he had had a plan for all he needed to tell her, a practiced monologue that flowed from one bit of information to the next.  That was all smashed to hell when Mirabelle had burst into his office and frantically declared Sansa missing.  In that moment, all his mental notes had scattered against the storm of his panicked thoughts.

Sandor sucked in a breath to start, to begin wherever he could and just piece things together as he went.  Before he could say anything, Sansa lifted her eyes to him, tears streaming down her cheeks as her lips quivered slightly.  

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, sniffling as she breathed deep to steady her breaths.  Sandor leaned forward in his seat, resting his forearms on his knees as he searched her eyes.  

“For what?” He could scarcely imagine what she had to be sorry for.  She had left with a man she thought she could trust, a man who probably told her he was going to take her home.  Sandor would be hard pressed to find anyone who _wouldn’t_ have done exactly as Sansa did.  

“For leaving. For making you come after me.  For putting your life and the lives of your men in danger.” Sansa let her eyes fall to her lap as she nervously wrung her hands and cried silent tears which streamed down her face. 

“You don’t have to be sorry for any of that,” Sandor replied, bewildered that she felt compelled to apologize for putting his men in danger.  If anyone needed to be asking for forgiveness for putting someone’s life in danger, it was him, not her. “You wanted to go home and you thought Nestor would take you there.  You had no way of knowing, Sansa.  I should have told you from the beginning why this is happening.”

At that, Sansa lifted her stare to him, the tears still glistening in her eyes.  A part of her seemed relieved that he wasn’t angry, relieved that he hadn’t lashed out at her.  The thought was absurd to him; to get angry at her for leaving.  It hadn’t even occurred to him that he might interpret her leaving as a slight against him.  Even if it had occurred to him, it wouldn’t have mattered.  All that mattered was getting her back safely and before something horrible happened.

“He…Nestor…told me some things.  He told me about the security guards at the Royce party…”

Sansa kept her eyes on Sandor, her words punctuated with a strange combination of hesitance and deliberateness.  Sandor matched her stare, realizing by the way she regarded him with a renewed sense of warmth that her time with Nestor Royce had revealed some of what Sandor had meant to tell her. 

“It wasn’t you,” she whispered as she shook her head slowly, fresh tears spilling over her cheeks.  “The entire time, it was never you who did that.”

Sandor dropped his eyes to the ground as he interlaced his fingers, shaking his head as he exhaled a deep breath, a breath he hadn’t noticed he had been holding.  

“No. No it wasn’t.”

“My mother…”

Despite his gaze being lowered, Sandor heard the way her voice faltered as she spoke her words.  He hadn’t known for sure what happened to Catelyn.  The reports were mixed as the authorities dealt with the investigation.  Names were slow to be released until family members could confirm the dead.  Ned Stark had left town and with that knowledge, Sandor has assumed he would only do that if Catelyn were either with him or if she were for sure among the dead. 

Sandor scooted to the edge of his seat until Sansa’s legs were situated between his.  Reaching out to her, Sandor pulled her into his arms and wrapped them tightly around her back.  Sansa sunk her face into his chest and cried anew, giving soft whimpering sounds with each inhale.  He felt helpless.  Nothing he had to offer her sounded like something that would make the tears stop.  Sandor wasn’t good with words in times like these.  He would probably make it worse by saying something.  So instead he did what he could and held Sansa as she cried, wrapping her up in his embrace and resolving himself to hold her for as long as she needed him to.   

“I’m so sorry, Sansa,” Sandor murmured as he rocked her ever so slightly in his arms.  It seemed to calm her some as her breathing became more even and the whimpering sounds quieted to a silence.  Sandor felt the pressure against his arms as she slowly pulled herself from his embrace.  Obliging, Sandor rested his arms on his knees once more, leaning towards her as she began to speak.   

“He told me about the Severelli and about all the cases he had rigged.  He told me about the case my father was working on.”

Sandor was shocked into a silence.  He hadn’t expected Nestor to tell her all of that.  Sansa lifted a wide-eyed stare to him. In the place of tears and grief, fear had begun to accumulate in her eyes.  Almost instinctively Sandor knew what she was about to ask.

“That man, the large one. Is he…?”

Sansa’s voice trailed off as she searched Sandor’s face, as if desperately hoping to be wrong and for him to reassure her that the man that seemed to terrify her wasn’t his brother, but was some other ridiculously large man. 

“My brother? Yeah. That’s him,” Sandor replied truthfully despite the tiny gasp that escaped Sansa’s lips at the sound of that truth.  Clearly, her short time spent with his brother was enough to petrify the poor girl. 

His brother was as good a place as any to begin revealing more truths, truths she desperately needed to know, but was only beginning to understand.  Sandor set in slowly, his voice calm and deep as if that might soften the truth of his words. 

“When Gregor left home, he started working for the Severelli.  Eventually he made his way up the chain of command and now he’s the underboss of the organization.  Long ago, Alberto’s father established a shaky alliance with the Severelli in the early days of both organizations.  It was clear from the beginning that the Severelli operated by a different code of ethics.  There moral compass is set differently than that of the Moriarti.  It’s still true even today. The Severelli and the Moriarti just sort of co-existed in the beginning.  There would be some heat here and there when territories clashed or associates were double dipping in both organizations.  Beyond that, the two families stayed out of each other’s business.

In the 70’s, the Severelli aligned themselves with a drug cartel.  The cartel pushed heroin and cocaine through the borders and the Severelli distributed for a cut of the profit.  The drug trade is lucrative and a lot of the Severelli men got very wealthy from that arrangement.  It continued well into the 80’s, but the cartel connection brought a lot of blowback in the form of violence funneled towards the Severelli members and their families.  The cartel became the strong arm of the Severelli and began calling a lot of shots.  Beyond that, the cartel didn’t like the Moriarti alliance.  To them, it was a liability.  They didn’t like the idea of a rival organization.  Cartels don’t form alliances with one another.  Instead they’re constantly at war with each other.  It made no sense to them that the Severelli didn’t step on our toes and we didn’t try to step on theirs.  A lot of violence started to pop up between the Severelli and the Moriarti because of the cartel’s influence. 

The leadership of the Severelli started to change in the 90’s.  The sons of the men who had established the cartel alliance were getting tired of the violence.  They wanted to sever the cartel partnership and start steering the organization in a different direction.  This fractured the Severelli; a lot of their men had gotten used to the cartel income and didn’t want to stop that cash flow.  Most of the higher-ups had already made up their minds to cut the cartel ties and move on.  The lower-ranking men pushed back and when the cartel found out, they naturally decided to back the members who were fighting to keep the alliance.”

Sansa furrowed her brow at him and shifted slightly in her seat.  Her eyes suggested confusion, that she didn’t understand what this had to do with anything.  Sandor lowered his head as he gathered his thoughts and tried to piece together where he needed to take this conversation next.  Lifting his gaze to her once more, Sandor continued. 

“Your uncle Brandon received death threats constantly for taking on a mafia case.  Nestor Royce did the same thing and he was hailed as untouchable.  Did you ever wonder why that was?”

Sansa’s eyes went wide at that and Sandor saw the rise and fall of her chest quicken with each breath.  Clearly, that thought hadn’t crossed her mind and Sandor was now beginning to see what Nestor had left out, the details he just happened to gloss over. 

“The pro-cartel Severelli members needed to overturn the leadership of the organization; put away the godfather, his underboss, the street bosses.  That’s a tricky thing to do and they were at least smart enough to understand they couldn’t just come in and off the higher ups.  The street bosses and underboss needed to be taken care of ‘legit.’ The godfather, however, was taken out to make a point; a point that things were changing and they didn’t give a fuck who they needed to murder to ensure those changes happened.  It was a bold move, but it worked. 

The Severelli members wanted a case built against the higher-ups of the organization; they wanted them put away.  Originally, your uncle Brandon was approached.  He was involved in the Moriarti case at the time and the Severelli told him if he put away members of not one, but two mafia organizations his career would be set.  But you know your uncle better than I do and even I know that Brandon Stark was never going to agree to something like that.  He refused, of course.  The Severelli tried to rattle his cage with death threats, but that didn’t work.  They then went to Nestor Royce and offered him the same opportunity they had offered Brandon, but Nestor was hesitant at first.  Since your uncle Brandon was knee deep in the Moriarti case, the Severelli saw the opportunity to take him down.  They could have him killed and the heat would blow back on my organization.  It was a win-win-win for the Severelli; they take down Brandon Stark, put some heat on the Moriarti, and send a very clear message to Nestor Royce about what happens when people refuse their offers. 

It all worked.  Nestor agreed to take the case; it launched his career, put him on the map and made him a very wealthy man.  And the Severelli-Cartel alliance continued. By this time, I had taken over the Moriarti family and Gregor had muscled his way into the position of underboss of the Severelli.  At that point, the Severelli-Moriarti alliance was severed and is now essentially a blood feud between me and my brother.  When my organization was framed for Brandon Stark’s death, this amped up the tensions between the Severelli and the Moriarti, which caused some retaliation, which led to violence, which led to more tension.  And so the cycle goes.

To your father, the Moriarti case represented a way to avenge his brother and what he perceives as the reason his brother is dead.  The Severelli, influenced by Gregor, jumped at the opportunity to use Nestor Royce to influence the turn out of the case.”

Suddenly understanding how the pieces were falling together, Sansa’s eyes snapped up to him as her lips parted slightly while she shook her head.

“Nestor said that they wanted you to be acquitted of your charges though.  They didn’t want to you go to prison.”

Sandor let his eyes shift to the sky as he chuckled a dark laugh.  Nestor had told her what the Severelli wanted to happen with the Moriarti case, but failed to mention why.  Once more, his cherry picking of details was very telling of his character. 

“Don’t mistake that for brotherly love,” Sandor began as he met Sansa’s eyes once more. “There’s no love between my brother and I.  Gregor wants my organization wiped off the map.  He wants me to himself; alone, suffering, and without the mafia family to back me up so that he can finish me off himself the way he wants to.  Slow and painful.   

You see, if I went to prison, I’d go with the rest of my men.  Nothing would change. I would just lead the organization from behind bars.  That shit happens all the time.  I’d have a guy on the outside in my place, but I’d call the shots from the inside.  Just like any other gang or organized crime family, the Moriarti are well-established in the prison system.  With the line of work we’re in, we have to know how to function even if we get thrown away for life. 

Gregor knows that and that’s not the outcome he wants.  He wants the lesser men slaughtered, my underboss and street bosses put away, and me out on my own so he can handle me the way he wants.  That meant getting someone on board who can influence your father and therefore influence the case.”

Sandor watched as Sansa seemed to turn white as a sheet.  He could almost see her blood running cold through her veins.  Silence settled between them as the gravity of all he told her seemed to set in.  Gazing off towards some invisible point on the ground as if lost in a daze, Sansa shook her head and Sandor could see her hands beginning to tremble. 

“Nestor…,” she murmured, understanding just _how_ low the man had been willing to go for all his greedy needs and purposes. 

“He was a greedy son-of-a-bitch, Sansa.  He had been at this shit for a _long_ time.  If he told you he had every intention of stopping, he was fucking lying.  He had no intention of ever stopping.  He was going to throw your dad under the bus if it meant saving his own neck. In fact, he did.  When the Severelli asked how your father had found out about the rigging of his case, Nestor confessed that he had told your father.  He could have lied, he could have made something up, but he didn’t.  He deliberately put your father and now you in danger.      

A few of my attorneys were under Nestor’s thumb and when I found out about that, I found out about what Nestor was doing.  I also found out that Ned Stark knew what Nestor was doing.  Your father would blow the lid on the case. It was only a matter of time.  He wouldn’t go through with the case if he knew it was rigged.  No way in hell.  Your father may be a pain in my ass, but he’s honest, I’ll give him that.  If it came out that the case was rigged, it would be dropped.  And those charges would never come against me or my men. 

I came to the Royce party to rattle Nestor’s cage.  Make sure that he understood I knew what he was doing and that I had every intention of exposing it all.  The folder with all your family’s information in it, with the notes on your father’s case, Bronn found that in Nestor’s house.  It was good information to have so I told him to take it.  The woman you saw at the party, the one that was throwing herself at me, she was the wife of one of the attorneys that was dealing with Nestor behind my back.  She thought she could spare her husband’s life by spreading her legs.  At the party, her husband found out about what she had tried to do, took her to one of the bedrooms upstairs, and beat the shit out of her.  I had every intention of roughing the attorney up anyway for what he was doing behind my back, but I don’t abuse women and I don’t tolerate men who do.  So I fucked him up for what his did to his wife too.  I was ready to leave after that.  I had come for part of what I had meant to do and there would be other times to fuck with Nestor.  And that was right about the time when Gregor’s men commenced what _they_ had come to do.”

Sighing deeply, Sandor settled back in his seat, feeling as though the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders.  Tilting his head to the side, Sandor stared at Sansa who had fallen silent.  With her head hung down, Sansa was again wringing her hands in her lap.  He could hear the heaviness of her breathing and waited for her to say something, to ask something.  For many moments she remained quiet, wordlessly absorbing all he had told her.  Finally Sansa lifted her eyes to him and Sandor felt his pulse quicken as her gaze steadied on him, almost boring through him with those bright blue eyes of hers.

“You knew that your brother was going to try and take me.”  It wasn’t a question, he noticed, but rather a statement spoken with a tragic sort of confidence.  She knew the answer to the question, but shifted her eyes about his face awaiting an answer. 

Sandor nodded his head as he matched his eyes to hers, returning the intensity of her stare.  

“I did,” he confirmed, his voice deep and calm.  Sansa bit her lip, as if stopping words from spilling out of her mouth.  She wanted to ask him something, he could tell.  Slowly releasing her lip, Sansa took a deep breath before speaking.

“At the party, how did you know who I was?” Sansa let her eyes fall away from his at her inquiry; either embarrassed for having asked or dreading the answer to the question. 

Sandor exhaled a small laugh.  The answer to the question was simple, almost stupidly simple.  It’s not as if he had been stalking Sansa for months, tracking her movements and gathering information about her.  By the way she averted her eyes from him, he could tell that she was expecting something like that to be the case.  In reality, he had seen her at the Royce party, couldn’t take his eyes off of her, and Marco had caught him staring and decided to share an interesting bit of information with him.  

“I saw you and Marco told me who you were.”  Technically, it was the truth, but Sansa didn’t need to know about all the thoughts that had been going through his head when he had seen her at the Royce party. 

Sansa fell silent once more and furrowed her brow, shaking her head as if something was troubling her, as if there was some bit of information she was struggling to wrap her head around.  As she settled her bewildered gaze on Sandor, her question escaped through trembling lips.

“Why? Why would you go through so much for someone you don’t know?”

Sandor settled back in his seat as he ran his palm slowly over his face.  This question easily trumped the first one.  The answer to this question wasn’t so simple. On the contrary, the answer was layered in complexities that he was only beginning to understand. 

Sandor leaned forward once more and reached for Sansa’s hands that were folded neatly in her lap.  Although slow at first, Sansa obliged and allowed her hands to be swallowed up by his.  Sandor searched her face, looking for whatever he could find there, before settling his eyes on hers. 

“I knew what Gregor would do to you if he got his hands on you, Sansa.  He was going to get what he wanted out of your father, get what he wanted out of you, and then he’d do you both in because that’s what he does.”

Sandor’s words were deliberate and sincere.  He didn’t have the words to explain the rest, didn’t quite understand the rest himself so he settled with what he could and she seemed to accept it as she nodded her head in solemn understanding. 

Sandor watched as a tear formed in each eye before running down each of her cheeks.  Her lips went to quivering again and Sandor knew he needed to tell her the last bit of it, tell her where it was going from here. He felt his heart beginning to pound in his chest as a bead of sweat formed on his brow despite the chill to the air.  A few days ago the thought of telling her this wouldn’t have elicited such a physical reaction from his body.  Sandor swallowed hard despite the dryness of his mouth. 

“Your father left Portland,” Sandor began as he squeezed her hands gently.  “That’s all anyone knows.  He’s alright for now. It’s you who isn’t safe right now.  I want to take you with me away from here. Some place where no one knows where you are, some place that’s safe.”

 

Sansa’s eyes snapped up to his and frantically shifted about his face.  Slowly she opened her mouth before closing it once more as she shook her head.  He didn’t know what he expected.  Clearly the prospect of leaving again was scaring her.  Sandor felt his breaths coming ragged from his lips as he watched the confusion fall about her face.

 

“Where?,” she replied in a voice that sounded more pleading than questioning. 

“Where I live. Where I’m from.”

Sansa swept her eyes back towards the house before returning a wide-eyed stare back towards Sandor, her voice thin and timid.

“I thought this is where you live.”

“No,” Sandor shook his head, only now realizing that he was beginning to sweat bullets.  “I spend my time here, but it’s not home to me.”

Sansa exhaled an exasperated breath as her eyes flew to the ground.  Her chest was rising and falling at a rate that almost matched Sandor’s breathing.  Shifting towards her, Sandor bent down slightly as he leaned forward, trying to catch her eyes before she let them dart away.  

“I’ll take you home, Sansa, when it’s safe.  When this is all over with.  Until then I need to get you out of here.”  His voice faltered slightly as he spoke, fractured with a sort of pleading that he hadn’t intended to be there.

He couldn’t keep her forever, and he knew that.  Eventually she would want to go home.  Fuck, she probably already wanted to go home.  He knew that and yet her hesitance still stung.  The way her brow was folded in worry, the way her eyes couldn’t seem to stay still as the thoughts raced through her head, the way she had remained deadly quiet.  All of it felt like a blow and Sandor hadn’t anticipated the feeling of desperation that was rising up from within him.  He wanted her to look at him, to see him for who he was and what he was offering her. 

Sandor lifted one of his hands and cupped it under her chin, gently lifting her head to look at him. 

“I can keep you safe.  No one would ever hurt you again or I’d kill them.”

Sandor wasn’t a liar, he hated liars, yet those were the truest words he ever spoke.  Everything else in his life felt like a lie in comparison to the truth he was offering to her now. 

Sansa stilled in his grasp, her eyes no longer frantically searching out something else to focus on.  Instead, her gaze focused sharply on his eyes. 

“You won’t hurt me,” she whispered, her gaze steadfast on him as she spoke. It sounded half a question, the inflection of her voice tremulous and meek. 

“No. I won’t hurt you,” he exhaled out on a deep breath as he shook his head.  The thought that he had caused her pain before had been gradually eating away at him, manifesting in his dreams to taunt him there.

Sansa lowered her gaze back to her hands on her lap as tears welled in her eyes.  Letting his hands fall to his own lap, Sandor pulled in a deep breath, the air feeling as though it was burning his lungs.  Dropping his head, he felt as though everything was unraveling around him, as though his world was spinning out of control.  The need to leave- to get up and walk away before he crumbled in front of her- settled in his limbs as he shook his head and shifted in his seat. 

Suddenly, he felt a tiny hand come up to cup his cheek.  Her fingers caressed his skin softly, the sensation warm and sending a shockwave through his body.  With his head hung down, Sandor lifted his hand to cover hers, gently pressing his fingers over hers as he exhaled a deep breath.

 “Little bird-”

Whereas before he had sought out her eyes, had willed her to look at him, to see him for what he was, it was now Sansa who was seeking out his eyes, forcing him to look at her.  And when he did look at her, her eyes had dried and where there had once been a fragile uncertainty, there was now strength and understanding. 

“Yes.” It wasn’t a hesitant whisper. It was firm and backed by the sincerity flashing across her eager eyes which were finally seeing him for what he was and what he had wanted to offer her from the very beginning. 

Leaning forward and with her gaze still matched to his, Sansa brought her other hand up to cup  his other cheek-the scarred cheek- and her lips, no longer quivering, tugged into a gentle smile.

“I’ll go with you.”  


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thanks to furygrrl on ff.net who pointed out that according to this fic, today (US time) would be Sansa's birthday. What better way to celebrate than an update?

 

**Gods and Monsters**

Chapter 7

* * *

Sansa pressed her fingers to her temples, closing her eyes and tracing small, but firm circles there. This worked, always worked, to lull her into a sleep. Over the years she found it wasn't the motion that beckoned sleep to come. No, it was the meditation; the way she let her thoughts flee from her mind before they could take root and grow into a tangled mess of uncertainties.

Now when Sansa pressed her fingers to her temples, sleep still wouldn't come for her. Instead, she had spent most of the night and the early morning hours awake in her bed. Listless and fearful of the nightmares awaiting her in the land of slumber, Sansa had gone through everything over and over again; the events themselves seeming like stark-raving, trance-induced musings of strange events that happened to someone else in some other lifetime long ago. Only they hadn't happened to someone else.

They had happened to her and she had only needed to open her eyes and look at the bruises and scratches still healing about her body to know that none of this was a trance or a dream. And it had all transpired within an unimaginably short amount of time, but it still somehow felt like a past life memory; the emotionality reverberating through a soul that forgets nothing, but a body willingly severing the ties of remembrance, through death or perhaps rebirth.

The way Sandor had come for her, the truths he had divulged to her, the way he had comforted her. It all tumbled wild about her restless mind; the pieces of information colliding together and spinning off as a whole to collide into yet another piece before everything became a cohesive mass, a supernova of truth collapsing in on the weight of itself before exploding forth its light to extinguish the darkness of misunderstanding.

However, it wasn't Sandor's truth that weighed heaviest against her heart, the heart that somehow already knew his confessions and understood his intentions before they passed his lips.

It was her own truth that startled Sansa and caused her to feel as though the ground had been ripped from right under her feet. The seeds of suggestion were planted each time he treated her gently when she expected brutality, each time he offered her half smiles and knowing looks when she had expected scowls and taunts, each time his fingers grazed her skin delicately when she had expected bumps and bruises to form in the aftermath of his touch. Suddenly, the truths of her own heart had bloomed before her when he offered to keep her safe until the time came that he could take her home and when he told her no one would ever hurt her again or he'd kill them.

He had meant it too; his eyes had searched her out and willed the sincerity of his words to come pouring through in just one earnest look. Sansa had been overwhelmed, shocked into a silence that she surmised had felt like refusal to him. She never expected any of it, least of all from him. She had expected him to be a monster, a beast. He was the Hound; brutal, fearsome, cold, and calculated according to her own father. And yet the way he looked at her, the way her held her, the way he saved her; not once, but twice now. He may be the Hound, but she was his little bird and she understood now the meaning of his lingering looks, gentle smiles, and caressing touches. But more importantly, she understood something of herself by truly seeing him. She understood her own longing for his looks, smiles, and touches and that supernova of truth was shone brightest in the expanse of her mind.

Letting out a deep sigh, Sansa turned to her side and felt her legs tangle amongst the thin cotton sheets of the bed. Reaching out, she snaked her arms around the pillow next to her and pulled it close to her chest, burying her face in its softness. Her breathing steadied as she closed her eyes and felt the pillow absorb the warmth of her skin and radiate it back towards her. She imagined it was him she was clinging to; the cotton pillowcase oddly similar to the cotton weave of his T-shirt that had absorbed her tears, the warmth of the pillow a small similarity to the warmth of his skin. She wished it were him holding her, her body pressed against his, his legs a tangle around hers, her arms snaked around his chest.

They had reluctantly left one another's company last night. The evening air on the balcony had grown chilly and both their eyes had become heavy-lidded as growing fatigue set in. Sandor had walked her to her room and wished her a good night. He had exchanged a look with her- a look heavy with need and worry- which intimated to her that he too would be tossing and turning the night away. She wanted to tell him about the Nine of Swords then, tell him that she could hardly imagine getting any sleep alone in her bed. Sansa had stopped herself short though and let the confession die on her lips; the confession that she might like to curl up in his arms tonight and drift to sleep listening to the rhythm of his breaths. The embarrassment had flushed across her cheeks; the sudden realization that that was exactly what she wanted and the worry that he may only laugh at her if she were to request such a thing.

Instead, they had retreated to their own rooms, to separate beds. Sure enough, Sansa spent the night up in her own head, desperately trying to cut through the vines of her thoughts.

At the first streaming of crimson and gold through the gossamer curtains of the bedroom, Sansa had unwound her arms from the pillow and adjusted it properly beneath her head as she watched the sun rise. She couldn't really remember the last time she had seen the sun come up. It was a simple pleasure which brought a small smile to her lips and offered a blessed distraction from her thoughts. That had been a half an hour ago and now her right foot, which was propped beneath her left knee, was besieged by the prickling of pins and needles. Wincing at the discomfort, Sansa stretched her legs and rotated her ankle in small circles to coerce the blood to flow back through her sleeping foot.

_At least part of me can get some sleep._

Exhaling a small laugh, Sansa swung her legs over the side of the bed as she ran her fingers through her hair, trying her hardest to work through the tangles that were there.  _Perhaps Mirabelle would do my hair and make-up for me today._

The thought brought a small smile to play about Sansa's lips. She hadn't seen Mirabelle since the gas station and felt a tremendous stinging of guilt where that was concerned. Undoubtedly, Sandor had placed much of the blame on Mirabelle, even though Sansa had made a choice to go with her to Arianne's and then made a choice to leave with Nestor Royce. She hoped that Mirabelle wasn't angry with her and that her disappearance hadn't caused too much of a strife between brother and sister.

As Sansa stood, she felt the blood slowly returning to her foot and the tingling sensation beginning to disappear, one pin and needle at a time. In soft steps, she walked towards the door and slowly opened it. Sansa's heart catapulted to her throat at the thought that she might run into Sandor in the hall and dropped instantly to her stomach when she realized he had already gotten up. Across the hall she could see that his door was open, his bed neatly made and his room devoid of his hulking form.

Her disappointment was short lived as a sound sharply caught her attention. The whimpering was soft, almost indistinguishable through the sound of her heart beating loud in her ears, and it was coming from down the hall. Suddenly, Sansa felt her hands moist with a cold clamminess as she made her way down the hallway slowly and willed her breaths to be silent so that she might hear. As she neared Mirabelle's closed bedroom door, the whimpering became ever so slightly louder and was now accompanied by what sounded like pained murmurings. Sansa felt her blood run cold as Mirabelle's words ambled from her room on stifled breaths and met Sansa's ear in the hallway.

"Please. No. Please. No. Don't. Please don't. Stop!"

Freezing in place, Sansa felt an all too familiar trembling beginning to quake about her body. As Mirabelle began her pleadings again, Sansa flew to the door with sweat beading on her brow and fear gripping her chest as she imagined the horror that might be ensuing inside the room.

Flinging the door open and running head long into Mirabelle's room, Sansa's eyes widened to the size of saucers and she let out a yelping gasp at the sight before her.

Completely naked, Mirabelle was on all fours, her face contorted in pleasure with Bronn behind her, one hand clutching her hip as the other was wrapped in a fistful of Mirabelle's glossy, raven-colored hair, his hips slamming against her bottom with each driving thrust.

Lifting her head with shock filling her eyes, Mirabelle squealed out as she reached around and frantically tapped Bronn on the arm to stop. Pulling away from him, Mirabelle scrambled to cover her nakedness.

"Fuck. Oh my god, Sansa!"

Squeezing her eyes shut, Sansa swiveled on her heel as she spouted out apologies as fast as they would come, her skin burning hot as a wave of mortification hit her.

"Oh my god! Oh my god! I'm so sorry!"

In a rush to leave the room, Sansa hadn't even opened her eyes as she dashed towards the door. When she did open her eyes, it was too late. She was already slamming into the door frame, clearly misjudging where the opening was as her forehead cracked against the wooden door frame with a resounding thud.

"OWW! Dammit. I'm sorry. Oh my god. I'm sorry!"

Bringing her hand to her throbbing forehead, Sansa hurried through the door and pulled it shut behind her. From the other side of the door, she could hear Bronn roaring in laughter as Mirabelle chided him, insisting that it wasn't funny.

Absolutely mortified, Sansa ran back to her room and threw the door shut behind her. Leaning back against the shut door, Sansa sucked in deep breaths to calm herself. With adrenaline and relief pumping through her veins, she felt as though her heart might beat right out of her chest. She had expected the worst, for someone to be hurting Mirabelle. The last thing she had expected to see was Mirabelle having sex with Sandor's underboss.

 _Oh God! Bronn is going to tell Sandor what I saw._ Somehow that thought was more embarrassing to her than actually walking in on the act. Sansa felt another wave of humiliation sweep over her as she buried her hands in her face and groaned. She winced as her fingers lightly brushed against the spot where she had run into the door frame. There was going to be a bruise, that was for damn sure.

In an effort to burn away what she had seen, Sansa took a hot shower and scrubbed her skin until it radiated pink, as if it wasn't already pink enough from embarrassment. After dressing and drying her hair, Sansa had every intention of hiding away in the room until Sandor came for her. It was safer that way. If she traveled out into the hallway, she might run into Mirabelle or Bronn for that matter. Or maybe she'd walk right into some other scandalous situation. Sansa's plans of hiding under a proverbial rock until it was time to leave were foiled as a knock came at her door and Mirabelle's sing-songy voice sounded from the other side.

"Saaaaaannnnnsa," Mirabelle cooed through the door. "I know you're in there. Open up! I want to talk to you, girl. And I want to see you!"

With a whimpering moan, Sansa paced towards the door and slowly opened it, letting her eyes instinctively fall to the ground as a flush of pink washed across her skin. Without missing a beat, Mirabelle's arms encircled Sansa and pulled her into a tight embrace. Startled, Sansa lifted her eyes as she felt Mirabelle's breaths rustling through her hair.

"I was so worried about you. God, if something would have happened to you. I'm sorry, Sansa. I'm so sorry."

Sansa's mouth hung open as she thought of something to say. Clutching Sansa by the arms, Mirabelle pulled away and settled her eyes on Sansa as if memorizing her face.

"I'm okay," Sansa whispered with a soft smile pulling on her lips as the warm flush of embarrassment seemed to fade away.

Furrowing her brow, Mirabelle brought her finger tips softly up to Sansa's forehead and gently placed them where a bump was undoubtedly beginning to form. Sansa sucked in a wincing breath at the touch and lifted her eyes up to Mirabelle's fingers still at her forehead.

"You poor thing. Let's go to the kitchen and get you an ice pack."

Agreeing with a nod, Sansa followed Mirabelle to the kitchen and plopped down in a stool situated in front of the breakfast bar. Sansa watched as Mirabelle rummaged through the freezer, pushing aside packages of frozen vegetables and care packages from the Italian 'mothers' until she found an ice pack. Wrapping the ice pack up in a hand towel, Mirabelle held it out towards Sansa and settled a timid gaze on her as Sansa gratefully held the ice pack up to the knot forming on her forehead.

"Do you want to talk about it?," Mirabelle asked gently as she leaned up against the counter opposite of Sansa, resting her arms delicately against the granite countertop and gazing hesitantly as her fingers softly interlaced.

Sansa didn't quite know what Mirabelle was referring to; the events that transpired last night or what Sansa had inadvertently walked in on this morning. Now that she thought about it, she didn't think she really wanted to talk about either. A day would come when she would be ready to talk about all that had happened last night, but that day was not today. Instead, Sansa settled for a question that was now burgeoning from somewhere in the back of her mind and forming on her lips.

"How long have you and Bronn been…been together?"

Mirabelle lifted a timid stare towards Sansa as she bit her lip which was curling into a girlish smile.

"About three months," Mirabelle replied as she looked at Sansa through her darkened lashes and wrapped her arms about her chest protectively. "Sandor doesn't know. We've been waiting for a good time to tell him. As you can imagine, now probably isn't the best time with everything that's been going on."

Dropping her head, Mirabelle rolled her eyes before letting out a small laugh. Sansa saw as a soft blush seemed to creep across Mirabelle's cheeks. The woman who was normally such an image of confidence, so put together as she carried herself with a sexy assuredness, was now the one succumbing to embarrassment.

Lowering the ice pack from her head, Sansa leaned forward towards Mirabelle, her curiosity thoroughly peaked.

"You think he'll get mad?," Sansa asked as she remembered the story of what Sandor did to Mirabelle's first boyfriend. Though from what Sansa could tell of Bronn, he didn't seem to be like Mirabelle's first boyfriend. Besides, he was Sandor's friend and if anyone was going to date Mirabelle, wouldn't he want it to be his friend? Sansa chewed her bottom lip as she furrowed her brow, now confused by her own question.

Laughing, Mirabelle gave a shrug of the shoulders as she raised her eyes towards Sansa once more.

"I don't know. He might. He always said he never wanted me to get involved with a Mafioso."

Sansa nodded her head, understanding the subtext of Sandor's wants for Mirabelle. The Mafia life was dangerous it seemed. Both Alberto and Sandor had all but confirmed that backlash was often directed towards the families of mafia members. Wives, children, and siblings were used as bargaining chips when someone needed to get what they wanted. The thought made Sansa's stomach knot nervously with a renewed sense of dread.

It's not like this truth hadn't been staring her in the face for the past few days. It had, it just didn't seem to hold the same meaning as it did now. The prospect of being involved with a mafia member hadn't been a prospect she considered. It's not as if she had spent her childhood dreaming of her father giving her away to a mob boss. Suddenly realizing the strange and abrupt leaps her mind had just made, Sansa felt the slow creeping of a blush ease across her cheeks and her heartbeat had somehow quickened in her chest.

When Sansa lifted her eyes, she found that Mirabelle was staring back at her, a mischievous smile pulling on her lips. Sansa's eyes went wide, fearful that Mirabelle had somehow read her thoughts and knew that she had been musing over what it might be like to be involved with a mafia man.

"When you came into my room this morning, what did you think was going on?," Mirabelle softly inquired.

Sansa exhaled out a tiny relieved breath. Apparently, Mirabelle was mistaking her blush as a renewed wave of embarrassment brought on by the mortifying memories of the morning.

"I thought…I don't know…I thought you were being…hurt or something." Now that Sansa thought about it, even if Mirabelle was being hurt, it's not like there was much she could do about it. The most she could have done was run to find Sandor.  _Sandor would have known what to do. He is strong, so strong. And brave too._ Sansa felt the bubbling sensation of butterflies in her stomach beginning once more.

"Hurt?," Mirabelle pondered quizzically, almost flattered at the prospect that Sansa was dashing into her room to save her.

"You were saying  _'No,' 'don't,' 'stop.'_ What was I supposed to think?," Sansa pleaded, eagerly trying to make her case and perhaps alleviate the sting of embarrassment. She had thought what anyone would have thought if they heard those same words.

At that, Mirabelle threw her head back and laughed heartedly, her chest bouncing as she heaved for breaths. When she finally caught her breath, Mirabelle placed her hands on her hips and cocked her head to the side.

"Sansa," Mirabelle said flatly as she gave Sansa a pointed look.

"What?," Sansa replied, confused and feeling as though she was missing something.

Giggling as she shook her head, Mirabelle removed her hands from her hips as she marked each of her words with a gesturing of her hands.

"No, don't stop," Mirabelle began, her words flowing together. Cocking an eyebrow, Mirabelle punctuated each of her words with an abrupt pause. "Not No… Don't... Stop… No, don't stop. As in, no, don't stop fucking me. No, don't stop doing what you're doing with your hands right now. No, don't stop so you can come because  _I'm_  about to come too."

Feeling her blood pulsing hot through her veins, Sansa's mouth hung open and curled into a perfect "O" at that. She hadn't considered that and now was not only embarrassed, but also felt like a complete moron. If Myranda were here, she'd be pissing her pants laughing at how naïve Sansa was. With a pout of her lips, Sansa lifted the ice pack once more to her head with one hand while the other crossed her chest dejectedly.

"You're very sweet though to try to come to my rescue," Mirabelle reassured as she reached across the counter and placed her hand on Sansa's forearm. "The only thing you 'rescued' me from was an orgasm."

"I'm sorry!," Sansa cried out, her voice cracking and giving way to a laugh, a laugh which Mirabelle eagerly joined in on.

As their laughter lulled, Sansa shifted her eyes towards Sandor's approaching form lingering in the entrance to the kitchen, his steps slowing as his eyes instantaneously narrowed at the ice pack pressed against Sansa's forehead. The tension in the room seemed to rise as Mirabelle pushed herself up from the counter and shot Sansa a pleading look, a look that seemed to say  _'if he asks, lie.'_

Sure enough, Sandor did ask as he approached Sansa, one hand resting on the back of the bar stool she was seated in while the other reached towards the ice pack, his eyes a storm of concern as he considered Sansa.

"What happened?" His voice was thick with worry, the seriousness filling the room and stifling the giggles that normally would have been passing between Mirabelle and Sansa in this moment. Now that she thought about it, it was a rather funny situation. However, the concern in Sandor's eyes stymied any amusement Sansa garnered from the situation.

"Nothing, I just…," Sansa whispered in return as her mind frantically tried to come up with something to tell him. She hated the idea of lying to him, but Mirabelle was staring daggers at her, clearly petrified that Sandor might find out about her morning tryst with Bronn.

"It doesn't look like nothing," Sandor grumbled as he placed his hand over Sansa's and removed the ice pack from her head, scrutinized the matching bump and bruise forming there. Suddenly, Sandor settled his narrowed gaze on his sister, his eyes seeming to turn to ice as he spoke. "Mirabelle, what happened?"

Composed as she spoke, Mirabelle lifted her eyes unflinchingly towards her brother as she held her chin up and steadied her voice.

"Sansa was upstairs and I was coming out of my ro-"

Seeing the way Sandor was boring into his sister with a penetrating glare, Sansa sat up in her seat and blurted out a disjointed slew of words, eager to dissipate the agitation she sensed was growing in Sandor.

"I…I ran into the wall…no door…ran into the door. Ran right into it."

Sansa watched as both Mirabelle and Sandor stared wide eyed at her; Sandor looking slightly amused and dumbfounded and Mirabelle looking as though she might face palm.

"You ran into the door," Sandor replied flatly, his voice bemused as he cocked an eyebrow at her. Clearly, he didn't believe her although she wasn't lying to him. She was just leaving out the detail of  _why_ she had run into a door.

Sansa eagerly nodded her head and shrugged her shoulders as her eyes fell to the floor. She knew Sandor well enough to know that he was good at reading people. One look in her eyes and he would know immediately she wasn't telling him the whole story.

Shaking his head, Sandor stared once more at Sansa's forehead as he snorted out a laugh.

"That's going to be a big bruise for running into a door."

Lifting her eyes to him, Sansa saw that his lips were pulled up into a smug half smile, a smile that suggested he knew damn well she wasn't telling him something, but he was enjoying how her tongue was tying itself in knots.

"It was…a big door…," Sansa let her voice drop off before squeezing her eyes shut at the realization of how profoundly stupid that statement was. Opening her eyes again, Sansa could see Mirabelle covering her mouth with the palm of her hand as she struggled to hide a smile and stifle a laugh.

Shifting his eyes between Mirabelle and Sansa, Sandor finally settled a perplexed stare on Sansa before finally crossing his arms about his chest, his voice lowered and his face hardening once more into a mask of seriousness.

"I've got a few things to take care of. I was thinking of leaving in an hour. Will you be ready by then?"

Sansa nodded her head as Sandor turned to Mirabelle, steadying his stoic stare at her.

"Mirabelle, I need to talk to you. I'll be in my office when you're done here."

Without another word and hardly waiting for Mirabelle's response, Sandor started towards the door, stopping as he reached the entrance of the kitchen before turning around and pointing a finger at Sansa.

"You. Watch out for doors. Or walls. Or whatever it is you're running into." Sansa watched as his hardened face, so serious and impassible not moments earlier, softened with a half smile and a wink of the eye.

With butterflies ravaging her stomach, Sansa found herself blushing yet again as a shy grin swept across her face.

* * *

As Sandor retreated back to his office with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, he allowed a small smile to creep across his lips at the thought of Sansa and Mirabelle giggling like a bunch of fucking school girls in the kitchen. It seemed to him there were no hard feelings between Sansa and Mirabelle, although he could have gathered as much. Mirabelle loved Sansa something fierce despite the short amount of time Sansa had been with them. Still, his sister had stayed away last night, seemingly understanding that after finding Sansa, Sandor would want her all to himself. And surely, Sansa didn't want to be inundated with questions either.

After tossing and turning all night just like he knew he would, Sandor had awoken long before sunrise and abandoned his bed for the silence of the parlor. Fueled by two cups of coffee and a resolute need to get Sansa away to safety, Sandor had worked out the details of today's trip which had fallen into place nicely. Still there was one detail that irked him, the same detail that taunted him throughout the night and rendered sleep nearly impossible.

Gregor was alive, more than likely, and undoubtedly raging at the fact that Sandor had swooped in, slaughtered the men Gregor had with him, and retrieved what had been taken from him, the little bird.  _I should have put a fucking bullet in his brain when I had the chance._ For the greater part of Sandor's life, the vengeful desire to murder his brother had been his driving force. It was the force that fueled the unbridled rage that afflicted him throughout most of his teenage years, it was the accelerant that sparked the decision to take over Alberto's place as head of the Moriarti family, and it had now manifested itself as an incessant nagging in the back of his mind which mocked him as it begged the question  _'Why didn't you just do it?'_

Sandor knew why he had hesitated although that knowledge did little to stave off the traces of regret beginning to form. A greater need, a more eminent desire, had trumped his life-long ambition to kill his brother and avenge the Clegane body count. He had come there to find Sansa and that was what he damn well meant to do. Gregor could wait, Sansa couldn't.

Sandor regretted nothing of that choice, but it had complicated his plans for today. A convoy of his men would need to set out with him. Sandor would have to leave behind his usual car in exchange for something he had never been seen driving before. Seven cars in total would leave the Moriarti mansion, each splitting up and traveling in different directions. If Gregor or his men meant to follow, they would have a one-in-seven chance of finding Sandor and ultimately Sansa. While Sandor wasn't a man who made a habit of gambling, even he knew that those odds were still a bit too high for his comfort and liking.

Settling himself in his office chair, Sandor flipped through the yellow legal pad of his notes. Bronn, Marco, and Alberto had already been briefed on the whole thing and understood their role in almost every scenario Sandor had thought out. If his years in the mafia had taught him one thing, it was to be prepared, to understand that shit could go down at anytime and to have already planned for each and every imaginable scenario. Some might call it overkill. Sandor called it smart.

When a light rapping came at his door, Sandor deduced it was Mirabelle and called her in. His sister peeped her head around the door as she opened it. It was a habit she had gotten into and still did it even when she knew Sandor was waiting on her to come. Shaking his head, he waved her in and motioned his head towards the chair across the desk from him as he silently beckoned her to sit. He leaned back in his chair and with his elbows resting on the arm rests Sandor contemplated Mirabelle over steepled fingers.

She sat silently, refusing to meet his stare and shifting uncomfortably as she crossed and then uncrossed her legs. Sandor didn't know what to say to her. He hadn't the time to really think about what to say. He was angry with her still, yet much of that anger had dissipated once Sansa was safely returned. Regardless, Mirabelle had defied him and it had almost lost him Sansa. His sister was stubborn and strong-willed, that he already knew, but this was pushing it too far. Mirabelle had been around long enough to know that what she had done was stupid.

Crossing her arms about her chest as she pouted her lips, Mirabelle finally lifted her gaze to meet Sandor's before sighing deeply.

"Are you going to hate me forever?"

Sandor stifled a laugh. Mirabelle was a strange creature; oscillating between a ball-busting hard ass and a pouty-lipped child who looked beside herself at the thought that she may have disappointed him. The question was preposterous, but that didn't mean Sandor wasn't going to take the opportunity to fuck with her.

"Don't know," he replied coldly as he snatched up the stress ball from his desk and set about giving it gentle squeezes. "Haven't really decided yet." At that, Sandor threw the ball up in the air before catching it, repeating the process as he saw Mirabelle looking at him wide-eyed with her mouth hanging open.

Throwing the ball up in the air, Sandor let it fall to his desk as he leaned forward and let out a chuckle.

"I'm kidding, Mirabelle."

Relieved and undoubtedly pissed at the same time, Mirabelle pulled her arms tighter across her chest as she shook her head with a small laugh. A silence fell between them and Sandor understood what it meant; she wanted to know what happened last night, but was afraid to ask. Whether she was afraid that he wouldn't tell her or afraid of what he might say if he did, Sandor wasn't sure, but regardless Mirabelle needed to know what happened. Gregor had been stirred and Sandor knew damn well there was going to be backlash. He had set something in motion that wasn't about to end any time soon. With a sense of foreboding suddenly dissolving the small smile that had been on his lips, Sandor knew with a shock of certainty that it was only just beginning. The thought made him want to leave that instant, to pack up his shit, get Sansa in the car, and get the fuck out of dodge. First, though, Mirabelle needed to know.

"I saw him last night," Sandor confessed as he studied Mirabelle's face. Her eyes seemed to widen a bit and the pallor of her skin became ashen, as if she had seen a ghost.

"Did he do that to you?," Mirabelle asked on a whisper of a breath as she motioned her head towards the purple bruise forming about his cheekbone. Sandor had almost forgotten it was there, purposely avoiding mirrors which were a solemn reminder of the scars he wore.

"Yeah," Sandor grumbled as the memories of his spat with Gregor flashed across his mind. Sandor had more or less dodged most of Gregor's swings, but exhaustion had eventually set in and a solid fist had cracked him across the cheek.

Biting her lip with a glimmer to her eyes which suggested she were on the verge of tears, Mirabelle tentatively set a worried stare on Sandor.

"Did he hurt Sansa?," she inquired softly, each of her words delicately formed on a nervous exhale of breath. Sandor hadn't asked Sansa about her interactions with Gregor. He doubted she wanted to talk about it and if she did, he imagined she would have talked about it last night. With a growing sense of uneasiness stirring within his center, Sandor knew that if Gregor had hurt Sansa, he would know about it. There wouldn't be scratches or bruises. There would be broken bones and a lifetime full of trauma.

"No. I don't think so," Sandor offered as he shook his head. At that, Mirabelle exhaled a deep breath, one she had clearly been holding onto thus far in the conversation. Sansa had been lucky. Had Gregor gotten around to doing what he wanted to do with her, Sandor doubted Sansa would be here to talk about it. The thought sent a wave of agitation to course through him as he clenched his hands around the arm rests of his chair.

"Is he…did you…?"

Mirabelle stopped her inquiry short as she let her voice drop off. Reading between the lines, Sandor understood what she was asking. It was the same question Alberto had asked him this morning. He was tired of explaining  _why_  he didn't take the opportunity when he had the chance. As with his frantic need to find Sansa, Sandor doubted this was something other people would understand.

"No. He's not dead," Sandor shook his head as he let his eyes fall away, somehow afraid to dash Mirabelle's hopes which were soaring at the moment. "I should have killed him when I had the chance." Pounding his fist against the desk, Sandor let himself succumb to the flush of anger that had been bubbling up within him. "Fuck! I should have. But I needed to get to her. It was kill Gregor or get to Sansa. I had to make a choice."

"And Nestor?"

"I don't know. I left the fucker chained to a pole. Gregor really did a number on him. If Nestor's still alive, then it's just barely."

Mirabelle bit her lip as she nervously twirled a lock of hair around her finger.

"How long will you be away?"

Shrugging his shoulders slowly, Sandor sighed deeply at the question.

"As long as I need to be. As long as it takes to finish this," he offered truthfully. Mirabelle nodded her head with a far-off look glazing her eyes. She understood what  _'this'_ meant.

"And then what?," Mirabelle spoke softly, her eyes lifting anxiously to meet his.

"Then I'll take her home." It was the first time Sandor admitted it out loud, the words somehow holding new meaning as they echoed through his ears. Apparently, the admission troubled Mirabelle as much as it troubled him. His sister exhaled a breath and shot a desperate look towards him.

"She can't stay with us forever," Sandor continued matter-of-factly, the words meant to reassure himself just as much as they were meant to reassure her. "Her father's still alive. I'm sure she'll be wanting to get back to a normal life and put this all behind her."

"What about you?," Mirabelle retorted, her voice thin yet pleading.

"What about me?"

Mirabelle scooted to the edge of her seat and rested her hands on his desk. Her eyes seemed to beseech Sandor to listen, to understand.

"There's something there between the two of you. I saw it in you and now I see it in her. Are you really going to be able to let her go? Let her walk out of your life?"

Sandor let his eyes fall away from Mirabelle as he swiveled slightly back in forth in his rolling chair. Would he be able to let her go? Even when her safety was assured, would he be able to let her walk away from him, just like that? Shaking his head ever so slightly as he stared off towards some invisible spot on the floor, Sandor answered his sister truthfully.

"If it makes her happy and if it's what she wants, then I will have to be okay with it."

Sandor found that he meant it. At some point, Sansa's wants and needs had trumped his own. If it made her happy, he wanted it for her, even if that meant he needed to disappear from her life.

With a heaviness filling the room, Mirabelle reached a hand across the desk towards Sandor, even though she could not reach him. The admission had struck something in Mirabelle, but it had struck something in Sandor too.

"You deserve to be happy too, you know."

Wordlessly, Sandor nodded his head. He wondered if he deserved to be happy. Surely, he was due some semblance of happiness in his life, but he imagined being happy with Sansa and doubted the Universe would allow him that. Not with all the shit he had done in his lifetime. Undoubtedly, he had racked up more bad karma than good and if he was due for any sort of compensation, it probably wasn't going to come in the form of Sansa Stark.

Lifting from her seat, Mirabelle circled around his desk and came to stand in front of Sandor. For many moments she stood there, her eyes searching him earnestly before she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his neck in an embrace.

"I'm sorry, Sandy. I should have listened to you. It was wrong. It was stupid of me. I'm so sorry."

Lifting his arms around her, Sandor returned the embrace and only then realized how much he hated being at odds with his sister.

"You're my sister, Mirabelle. I'd do anything for you, anything at all. But you can't just go off and do shit like that. Not…" Sandor's voice cracked before dropping off. Sucking in a deep breath and exhaling, he steadied his voice before continuing. "Not with her. Not with anything, really, but definitely not with Sansa."

Pulling away, Mirabelle smiled at him, clearly relieved to bury the hatchet and move on from this.

"You really care about her, Sandor. She's really getting to you."

Unable to look Mirabelle in the eye, Sandor let his eyes fall to his lap and remained motionless. Feeling Mirabelle's curious eyes boring into him, Sandor gave a gentle nod. Even without looking at her, Sandor could feel his sister beaming at his admission.

"She's a sweet girl," Mirabelle cooed through a smile as she gently placed a hand on Sandor's shoulder. "You take care of her. Be gentle. You're all rough and tumble on the outside, but I  _know_  that you've got a soft spot for her. Show her that."

Letting his eyes lift to Mirabelle, Sandor wordlessly nodded his head once more, a smile beginning to creep across his lips. Somehow he felt relieved, like a weight had lifted from his shoulders.

Pacing towards the door, Mirabelle stopped short and turned her head over her shoulder back towards him.

"You know, her birthday is coming up," she asserted with a million-watt grin flashing across her face.

"I do know that." Sansa had scribbled her note to Mirabelle on the back of her missing person's flyer, which had undoubtedly been forged by Nestor. Sandor had looked it and spotted her birthday, feeling entirely like a creeper for having learned when her birthday was from a fucking missing person's poster of all things.

Furrowing his brow and crossing his arms about his chest, Sandor stared mindlessly towards the junction of the wall and ceiling. Her birthday was indeed coming up soon, much sooner than he realized.

"You need help figuring out what to do for her, don't you?" Mirabelle's hands went to her hips as she tilted her head to the side and shot him a look. It was a Mirabelle look; mischievous, playful, cocky, and chiding.

Shrugging his shoulders and allowing a full smile to pull at his lips, Sandor cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Might be."

Feigning annoyance with an exhaled breath, Mirabelle giggled as she shook her head at him.

"I guess it's the least I can do. What would you do without me?," she questioned playfully.

"Not quite sure," Sandor replied, swiveling in his chair once more as he snatched up the stress ball on his desk and tossed it from one hand to the other. "Probably suffer from fewer headaches, that I know for sure."

Rolling her eyes, Mirabelle turned and made for the door once more. Narrowing his eyes, Sandor shouted out as she reached for the door knob.

"Oh! One more thing, Mirabelle."

Spinning on her heel, she turned around, her smile still fresh on her lips.

"No more fucking around with Bronn behind my back. If you're going to be with him, at least come clean with me and bring that shit out in the open."

Sandor watched as the smile fell from her lips and she swallowed hard.

"How…how did you…?" Her voice had lowered to a tone just above a whisper.

It was now Sandor's turn to smile and smile he did as he launched the stress ball at her, a devilish grin played about his lips.

"You think you're the only one that gets to know things around here and call people out on it?"

Catching the stress ball, Mirabelle let her eyes fall to the floor as a soft blush crept across her cheeks.

* * *

They were on the road by 8:00am.  It was the earliest Sansa had been up and moving about doing important things in as long as she could remember.     

The first two hours were spent in relative silence; on Sansa's part because she felt as though she were still half asleep and on Sandor's part because he was clearly on edge as they left the Moriarti mansion.  

Unbeknownst to her, he had meticulously planned their departure down to a T.  Although she was beginning to suspect that she probably shouldn't have expected any less.  If she knew anything about him at this point, it was that he was thorough and smart about each move he made.  Nothing was done recklessly and without a second thought.  

After packing her a bag full of clothes, toiletries, make-up, hair products, and shoes, Mirabelle had dressed Sansa in a sky blue sun dress, curled her hair into soft waves, and applied a tasteful smattering of makeup to her face.  She then kissed Sansa on the cheek and gave her brother a lengthy embrace before Sandor led Sansa from the parlor, down the hall of Alberto's memories preserved in pictures, and towards the basement lounge.  All at once, Sansa realized that she had not been down in the basement lounge since arriving at the mansion bloody, terrified, and wholly convinced that Sandor- or the Hound, as she knew him then-had some terrible fate decided for her.  _How things have changed._

When they reached the basement lounge, the smell of stale cigar smoke and day-old alcohol filled her nose and faintly invoked vague memories of the fear she felt when first arriving at the mansion.  The men had gathered about the lounge, many looking either tired or hung over with dark bags hanging beneath their eyes and grim smirks tightly creasing their lips.  Silently, they stepped aside as Sandor led Sansa through, a few clapping him on the back and offering solemn words of support. Many eyed Sansa warily with stern looks of suspicion, as if she was somehow the cause of chaos that had ensued within the past week or so.  

Swallowing hard, Sansa began to feel a flush of fear bubbling up within her.  It wasn't the same sort of fear she had felt the last time she traversed the span of the lounge.  It was fear that these men-Sandor's men- didn't approve of her presence and were silently questioning her with scrutinizing stares.  Sensing her discomfort, Sandor had stopped half way through the room and took Sansa's hand in his own.  Now instead of leading her through the room, he was walking by her side.  

It was a show of solidarity, she surmised.  The questioning looks of his men were met by Sandor leading her through the basement lounge, head held high and his hand wrapped tightly around hers. If his men were hesitant to accept her into the fray, Sandor was meeting their hesitance head on, as if to say  _'I accept her and so will you.'_   It was a simple gesture, but it meant the world to her.  

Through the catacomb of underground tunnels, Sandor led her to the garage containing cars at the ready.  She had expected to climb into one of the many black Mercedes sedans that seemed to be synonymous with the Moriarti family.  Only when Sandor led her to a newer model grey Ford Mustang did Sansa realize how switching out the Moriarti trademark vehicle was a smart idea.  Beyond that, it was the safest thing to do.  In addition, the license plates were registered in Arkansas, probably the most inconspicuous state in the country. The only thing that bore any semblance to his usual vehicle were the deeply tinted windows.  

As they started from the Moriarti mansion, Sansa realized they were accompanied by a convoy of vehicles in all different makes, models, and years, each with tinted windows.  Smiling softly to herself, Sansa puzzled out what was happening.  She had once heard that the President of the United States has three identical vehicles that set out with him as decoys.  Any would-be assassins had a one-in-three chance of actually fulfilling their mission.  

Despite the convoy of decoys accompanying them, Sansa could tell Sandor was on edge.  His jaw was clenched tightly, his eyes consistently flickering to the rear view mirror and the road around them as he investigated any suspicious cars that hovered around them.  At each junction of major highways, a few of the cars would split off and head in a different direction.  When this would happen, Sandor would carefully evaluate the road around them, undoubtedly creating a mental catalog of cars that followed them, cars that were not a part of the decoy.  

As they passed these cars only to find unassuming people casually going about their business, Sansa could almost see him crossing that particular car off the checklist he had enumerated in his head.  

By the third hour, half of the convoy had split off and Sandor had settled in his seat, the tension seeming to dissolve away, and Sansa was awake and now bored by the sights along the side of the highway.  Blessedly conscious during this trip, she was now able to discern where they were.  The Moriarti mansion was in Nevada and they were now heading north and toward California.  

Turning towards Sandor, Sansa tilted her head to the side and gave a small smile. 

"Do you want to play a game?," she asked timidly although her excitement was slowly creeping through her. 

Sandor shot her a stare, one that suggested he didn't quite know what sort of game she wanted to play.  By the half-mocking, half-playful smile on his face, Sansa imagined he thought she wanted to play some dumb road trip game like I Spy or the license plate game.  The game she had in mind wasn't necessarily a road trip game. Rather it functioned to not only pass the time, but also to satisfy the growing curiosity she felt blooming within her.  She knew some things about Sandor, but wanted to know more of him. 

"What sort of game?" he inquired cautiously, not quite agreeing, but not flat-out refusing her either.  

"I ask you something.  I answer first and then you answer after.  Then after you answer, it's your turn to ask me something." 

Shifting his gaze towards her, Sandor cocked an eyebrow at her before sighing and shaking his head.  Laughing, Sansa realized it was as good a sign of his compliance as she was going to get. 

Turning in her seat so that she was facing him, Sansa bit her lip and stared out towards the road in front of them, thinking about which question she wanted to ask first. 

"Alright.  Favorite movie.  Mine is ' _The Princess Bride_.'What's yours?" 

Sandor nodded his head approvingly before offering his reply. 

"Mine would have to be  _'The Godfather.’"_

Bursting into laughter, Sansa propped herself up, pushing her elbow against the seat so that she could shoot him an incredulous stare. 

"Really?  _'The Godfather'_? No, that doesn't count.  Pick something else." 

Returning her stare with one that feigned offense, Sandor shook his head and let out a chuckle.  

"What's wrong with  _'The Godfather'_? No, it's my favorite.   _'The Princess Bride'_ isn't even from your time.  If anyone should pick something else, it's  _you._ "

Biting her lip and crossing her arms about her chest, Sansa settled back in her seat and felt a grin crease across her lips.  

"Alright.  Fair enough.  It's your turn." 

Narrowing his eyes, Sandor looked at Sansa with a mischievous smile.  She had expected him to ask her something scandalous. 

"Favorite color.  Black."

"Purple," Sansa replied immediately before chewing on her lip trying to think of what else she wanted to know about him.  "Favorite....hmmm...favorite food!  Lemon pound cake." 

"Meat," Sandor declared almost proudly, his voice gruff as if trying to accentuate his masculinity. 

Sansa wrinkled her nose at him and burst into another fit of giggles. 

"Meat? Just any meat? Not one in particular?" 

Exhaling a laugh, Sandor lifted a hand from the steering wheel and pointed an index finger at her.

"Are you going to make fun of every answer I give you? Yes, meat.  Any and all.  I'm a man. Men like meat." 

Sansa acquiesced with a shrug of the shoulders and the game continued on for the next thirty minutes.  She learned a great deal of things about him; he liked the White Stripes, but not as much as the Black Keys, hated the summer time, preferred crunchy peanut butter over smooth, which she adamantly disagreed with and that led to a lengthy debate of the pros and cons of both.  He liked his coffee black, but didn't like tea, if he could travel anywhere it would be to Russia, and was a dog lover, which was something they both agreed on.  

Somehow the game had transformed into him asking her questions about her life in Portland, her childhood, her hopes and dreams for the future.  She had heard of his past, knew the dark secrets and painful memories.  He wanted to know about her life and she wanted to tell him.  Sansa was pleasantly surprised that he listened,  _really_ listened, as she spoke, as if he was eagerly and genuinely interested in all she had to tell.  Every now and then he would interject to ask questions, but mostly he let her do the talking.  She told him of her ballet training and how she had begun at an early age.  He asked about her plans for college. She told him of her dream of being a music teacher.  

There were no awkward silences or strange pauses, and she never felt pressured to tell him more than she wanted to.  When the conversation came to a natural lull, she saw that he had a small smile on his lips and she found that unbidden one had formed on hers too.  They were now six hours into the drive and Sansa knew they had a ways to go.  They stopped to eat in some little town at the Nevada-California border.  She chided him about his love of meat.  He jested back about her love of lemons, which he confessed he thought was entirely strange.  She had to work to finish her food as she delightfully realized he had a strange sort of humor to him.  Somehow she found the things he said to be hilarious even though he had never intended them to be.  He jokingly made fun of her for that too, calling her a loony bird instead of a little bird.  

Back on the road and an hour into California, Sansa was content to find that they had abandoned the desert landscape for the lushness of forested hills that were gradually giving way to the mountains; not the barren mountains that flanked the lonely desert, but the rare and striking beauty she knew to associate with the Sierra Nevada mountain range.  Entranced by the beauty, Sansa set her gaze out the window and absorbed the sense of serenity that descended upon her.  Somewhere between Nevada and now, her mind had calmed and her worries were washed away.  Perhaps it was the picturesque landscape they were engulfed in or maybe it was the accumulating distance between where they had come from and where they were heading.  Although those surely contributed, Sansa sensed it was more.  She felt safe.  Perhaps it was a facade for now, an illusory vision that could be shattered at any moment, but she relished the feeling and found herself unwilling to question it.   _Just let it be._

Through the subtle motions of the car and the sunlight streaming through the window and warming her skin, Sansa found her eyelids growing heavy beneath her sunglasses.  Pulling her legs up on the seat and turning towards Sandor, she fell asleep.  Awaking three and a half hours later, she noticed the sun hovering in the windshield and realized they were now heading west, towards the sun that was retreating slowly towards the horizon. 

Stretching her legs and letting them fall off the seat, Sansa reached around and pressed her fingers to her lower back, rubbing out the soreness she found there.  He had told her it was going to be a long car ride.  Surely, they had to be getting closer.  Sandor confirmed as much as Sansa sat up and pulled the sunglasses off her face to set a sleepy gaze at him.  Pushing his aviator sunglasses up onto his head, he gave her a soft half smile. 

"We're a half hour away," he informed her before pushing his sunglasses back down over his eyes. Silently, Sansa nodded her head as her eyes glanced over to the speedometer.  He had been doing an even 75 mph most of the way, sometimes accelerating to 85 in areas where the traffic cleared and the road extended in a straight shot.   _No wonder we’re making good time._

Leaning forward, Sandor flicked off the radio, which had softly been playing in the background. Turning his stare towards her, Sansa saw that a strange sort of smile was playing about his lips, something between curiosity and mischief.  

"I have a game for you.  It's called 'I ask you a question and you answer truthfully.' Just one question.  And you have to tell me the truth." 

Sansa pushed herself up as she cocked an eyebrow at him, trying to read his face and puzzle out whether or not she should agree to his game.  After considering him for a moment, Sansa sighed as she bit her lip.

"Alright.  What's your question?," she relented and immediately felt as though she might regret this decision here in a second. 

Nodding towards her forehead, Sandor settled back in his seat as he casually draped his arm over the steering wheel. 

"That bruise on your forehead, you said you ran into a door.  What I want to know is  _why_ you ran into the door.  You have to tell me the truth.  I'll know if you're lying." At that, Sandor turned towards her, grinning like a mad man.  

Feeling a sudden flush of renewed embarrassment, Sansa could feel the heat beginning to accumulate on her cheeks.  Unbidden, her hands were wringing nervously in her lap.

"I can't tell you," she responded, not lying, but not exactly complying to give him the truth. "I told Mirabelle that I wouldn't tell." 

By the way Sandor leaned forward in his seat and gave a dark chuckle, Sansa knew she had said too much.  

"Nope.  You have to tell me. And you're blushing so I know it's something good.  Go on.  Spit it out," he implored as he shifted in his seat with anticipation.  

"I can't," Sansa pleaded through a shy smile.  "I told her I wouldn't tell you." 

With his face dropping slightly in sudden realization, Sandor pulled off his sunglasses and tossed them down in the center console before looking at Sansa through narrowed eyes. 

"If this is about her and Bronn, I already know." 

A sense of relief washed over her as she saw he was giving her a knowing smile, clearly unfazed that Mirabelle and Bronn were seeing each other.  Resting her face in her hands in complete and utter embarrassment, Sansa shook her head as she let out a pained laugh. She had promised to tell him the truth and she supposed she owed it to him to play along with his game since he played along with hers. 

"I walked...," Sansa suppressed a nervous giggle before beginning again. "I walked in on them..." She couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence, but didn't have to because Sandor had slapped the steering wheel and shifted his stare towards her. 

"Don't tell me you walked in on them fucking?," he exclaimed, his amusement at her embarrassment clearly trumping any sort of residual anger he had about his sister's new relationship.  

Pulling her hands away from her face which was now probably beet red, Sansa bit her lip and slowly nodded her head at him.  

"I got flustered...and ran into the door frame." 

Throwing his head back against the head rest, Sandor let out a deep, low chuckle, a hearty laugh which erupted through his chest and filled the car.  When his laughter ebbed, Sandor shifted a stare towards Sansa again and erupted into laughter once more when he saw how red she was. 

"That's the funniest shit I've heard in a long time," he confessed through laughter.  

"It's not funny," Sansa cried out, suppressing her own giggles.  Now that she thought about it, it was sort of funny, but she wasn't about to encourage him.  Lifting her fingers to her forehead, Sansa gave a small pout of the lips.  "I hurt my head." 

Turning his eyes towards her once more, Sandor huffed a small laugh and lifted his hand to the back of her head, gently rustling his fingers through her hair. 

"I'm sorry.  No it's not funny that you got hurt.  It's funny that you walked in on them.  And fucking adorable how embarrassed you are about it." 

Suddenly forgetting her feigned poutiness, Sansa found herself blushing once more.   _He thinks I'm adorable._ The thought made her stomach flutter with butterflies and forced a shy smile to creep across her lips.  

Shaking his head with a smile still on his lips, Sandor removed his hand from the back of her head and draped it over the steering wheel once more.  Cocking his head to the side, Sandor shifted his gaze to her once more. 

"I may have to wrap you up in bubble wrap, keep you from getting hurt.  What do you think about  _that_?" he inquired jokingly.  

Feeling her small smile bloom into a sweeping grin, Sansa shook her head and dropped her stare to her hands folded softly in her lap.  

"I'd like to see you try," she responded gently, gazing at him through her lashes with a devious smile. 

Nodding his head slowly, Sandor shot her a devilish grin in return, apparently spurred on by her playful defiance.   

"That can be arranged." 

As they turned north on to the 101, Sansa felt a swift tug on her heart strings.  The craggy coastline to the west rose from the turquoise waters in jagged edges and rocky cliffs. The beach below was dotted with large boulders standing proudly against the onslaught of foamy waves slamming against them which dispersed into radiant sprays of water that beautifully caught the light of the sun.  The landscape to the east of the road slopped in black hills darkened by thick forests, the folds of the land swathed in an ethereal mist that rolled down from the hills.  Sansa shuddered as she released a deep breath.  She knew where they were.  Only one place on earth did forest collide into ocean, abandoning the belief that these forces of beauty cannot coexist and that one must relent for the other to flourish.  

The Pacific highway ran along the coast of California and extended well up into Oregon.  Having been asleep, her bearings were off and she knew not if they had somehow cut up into Oregon.  While she doubted they were heading anywhere near Portland, the thought of at least being this close to home sent a sobering shock straight to her core, stirring something inside of her that had been suppressed since fleeing from home the night of the Royce party. 

“Are we in Oregon?,” Sansa inquired breathlessly as her eyes fluttered up to Sandor. 

Shaking his head, Sandor leaned forward and shifted his gaze through the windshield and towards the paradise of forest and sea gloriously displayed in front of them.  

“No.  We’re about an hour and a half south of the California-Oregon border,” he responded on a rasping breath, seemingly absorbing the miraculous view.

Feeling her heart drop slightly, Sansa let her eyes fall to her lap. 

“How far is Portland?,” she questioned tentatively.  She was more than grateful that he had offered to protect her, to keep her safe, and she didn’t want him to get the wrong idea.  However, the question formed on her lips faster than she could stop it.

“Six hours north,” he responded flatly.  If he was in any way offended by her question, Sansa could not tell. 

Turning left down a small road that jutted off the Pacific highway, Sandor drove the rest of the way in silence, shifting here and there in his seat as they presumably neared their destination.  The two-lane road hugged the features of the landscape, rolling over hills and curving around the edges of a craggy cliff.  The car slowed towards yet another road to the left, a desolate, tree-lined road that ran parallel to the coast before forking off into two directions.  Sandor eased the car towards the left fork and slowly meandered down a gravel road which terminated in a circle drive. 

The car slowed to a halt in front of a small house that was fashioned in the style of something between a log cabin and a stone cottage; the elements of both married in planked siding and wooden beams intersected by large portions of grey stone.  The area around was wooded, but beyond the thick columns of trees, Sansa could see the ocean rippling somewhere below the cliff’s edge the house was situated on.  Turning in her seat at once, Sansa saw Sandor staring off towards the home with a beaming of pride.

“This is where you live?,” she inquired, bewildered and breaking the stunned silence that had befallen her.

“Yes, this is my home,” Sandor replied with a nod of his head.    

Sansa didn’t know what she had expected.  Perhaps something akin to the Moriarti mansion or maybe a bachelor pad penthouse suit in a large city.  This was isolated, it was modest, it was rustic, it was simple.  As Sansa stared wide-eyed at the house they were parked in front of, she hadn’t noticed that Sandor was watching her, absorbing the sight of her admiring something he clearly took a lot of pride in and was anxious to show her. 

Motioning his head towards the house with a half smile, Sandor undid his seat belt and slowly peeled himself out of the car with a groan.  Sansa mirrored his movements, stretching her legs which were stiff and sore, and arched her back to alleviate the soreness that was there.  After pulling the bags from the car, Sandor led her towards the house.  A large stone patio expanded in the front, its perimeter made up of a short stone wall that curved towards the stone steps that led to the heavy oaken front door.  

With his bag clutched in one hand, Sandor fumbled with his keys before finding the correct one and unlocking the door.  Pushing through the front door, Sansa stepped inside and was met with the view of a large open space; a modernized kitchen to the right which flowed into the open living room area.  Immediately dropping her bag, Sansa slowly paced towards the living area and let her eyes roam the room, absorbing the sight of exposed wood that was left distressed and unstained to display its age and natural beauty.  A floor-to-ceiling hearth was situated on the far wall between two sliding doors that opened up to an expansive deck. 

Sucking in a gasping breath, she drank in the view from beyond the deck.  Lined on either side with trees, a small backyard cleared and gave way to the sight of the ocean beyond the cliff.  The setting sun peered through trees and spilled its light through the room in heavy streams. The room was open to the above save a loft area situated above the kitchen.  On the left side of the room an arched opening in the wall expanded into a hallway which undoubtedly contained bedrooms. 

“This place was damn near in ruins when I bought it.  I got it for a hell of a deal, but it took a lot of work to get it in the condition it’s in now.  It was well worth it though.”

Standing silent in the middle of the room, Sansa’s daydream-like reverie was broken as she turned slowly towards Sandor who was leaned up against the back of a large, L-shaped couch. Sansa felt her breath catch in her throat as her voice quivered. Letting her eyes sweep across the room with a newfound appreciation, Sansa settled her gaze on Sandor, a small smile pulling at her lips as she considered him.

“You did this? I mean, you fixed this place up?”

Nodding his head, Sandor ran his fingers through his hair before motioning towards various features of the open space.

“The floors were stripped and re-stained.  Kitchen was gutted and re-done.  The fireplace was originally small, nothing like it is now.  I did the stonework for it with help from one of the street bosses.  He’s a stone mason in his day job.”

Pacing towards the fireplace and running her fingers along the stonework, Sansa imagined the time it must have taken for Sandor to do this himself; the hours spent at the task of puzzling together rough slabs of the stone before securing them in place.  The floors below her feet were large planks of wood, stained a dark cherry color which warmly echoed the earthen tones and rustic aesthetic of the house. 

Seeing his home, the home he had poured so much effort and pride into, Sansa understood something of the man he was in a way that 20 questions on a road trip would never reveal.  Through sweat, blood, and hard work, he had carved out his own piece of paradise, shaping and reshaping until it had reached his standard of perfection.  His home was so much like him; rough-around-the-edges, but an exposition of the natural, unsullied beauty which surrounded the place.  There were no frills, no façades of wealth and glamour, no superfluous displays of opulence.  It was exposed yet warm, pure in its honesty, strong where it lacked beauty, and beautiful where it lacked excess.  It was so  _him._  

No wonder he had made it a point to tell her the Moriarti mansion was not his home.  Moriarti’s home was a good idea on paper; a mansion in the desert replete with all the luxuries anyone could ever hope for.  The entire ideology contrasted everything Sandor seemed to stand for.  Of course it wasn’t his home.  It made so much sense to her now she was surprised and admittedly a little ashamed that she had never seen it before.  Sandor was not a man of superficiality and status symbols.  By the way he seemed to beam with pride, she could tell this was where he felt at ease, where he felt himself.  His home was simple, but it was his. 

Pushing himself from the side of the couch, Sandor strode over to where she was in front of the fireplace and pressed his weight against the side of it, facing Sansa with a steady gaze. 

“This is beautiful, Sandor.  All of it.  It’s amazing.”  Smiling up at him, Sansa felt a flush of warmth surge through her.  The man she had thought him to be and the man he was were at odds with one another.  The gentleness he regarded her with contrasted the brutality she had seen in how he handled Leon.  His involvement in the mafia was rooted in violence and a rage that stirred within him and yet he seemed to come alive as soon as he found his way back home; a home that was quiet, contemplative, isolated, and rustic.  The Hound and Sandor Clegane existed within the same man, both seeming to battle the other for control.  In the past few days, Sansa had seen little of the Hound and much of Sandor Clegane, a man who was slowly, but surely beginning to affect her in ways she hadn’t thought possible.

“There’s one more thing to show you.  Come on,” Sandor gently urged as he took her hand and led her out on the deck behind the house. 

Traversing the distance of the backyard, Sansa could hear the waves crashing somewhere down below, the steadiness of the sound rhythmic and peaceful.  At the end of the yard and through a small cluster of trees, an old, thick set of wooden stairs jutted from the soft slope of the cliff’s edge which eased towards the beach below. 

With a gasping breath, Sansa turned a wide-eyed stare towards Sandor only to find him already flashing a knowing smile at her.

“This is yours too?,” she asked on a breathless giggle. 

Nodding his head, Sandor took her by the hand once more and began leading her down the stairs towards the sandy expanse below.  Carefully, he ensured her footing with each step until they reached the empty beach below. 

“You think I would live this close to the coast and not have access to  _this_?”

With a sweeping gesture of his extended arm, Sandor admired the isolated beach that was glowing warmly with the hues of the setting sun.  The skies above were painted in hues of lavender, mauve, and beige, the clouds looking like wisps of cotton candy.  Reflecting the luminescence of the setting sun, the water shone like metallic ripples of copper against foamy crests of the waves. 

 

 

 

Enchanted and at a loss for what to make of it all, Sansa shook her head slowly and smiled wistfully up at Sandor before letting him lead her by the hand towards the crashing waves. 

* * *

Sandor smiled to himself as he let go of Sansa's hand and took a seat in the sand. He had been gone from this place too long.  _Too fucking long._

Moriarti had a good thing going with his sprawling mansion in the desert, but that wasn't really Sandor's style nor did he enjoy living in the desert. This was where he felt the most at home. He hadn't been back to his childhood home since fleeing with Mirabelle so many years ago. There was no need to stir up the memories of all that had ensued there. Instead, he had snatched up this place and made it his new home.

If the perpetual smile or glistening of her eyes were anything to go by, Sansa preferred this place over the Moriarti mansion as well. He had guessed as much, but still couldn't help the feelings of nervousness at bringing her here. It wasn't just the nagging worry in the back of his mind as to whether or not he could keep her safe here, but he also wanted her to feel comfortable. The thought that he had brought her all this way and she may feel ill-at-ease had played out in the back of his mind and danced its way to the forefront of his thoughts as they neared their destination.

Leaning back on his elbows and propping himself up in the sand, Sandor watched Sansa slip out of her shoes and tentatively dip her feet in the water. A tiny gasp escaped her lips as the thinning waves rushed over her feet. Swiveling around towards him, she flashed a gleeful smile at him.

"It's a little cold," she announced softly. Despite her declaration, Sansa slowly eased her way out towards the waves, lifting her dress midway up her thighs as she giggled each time the water battered against her bare legs.

Turning around towards him once more, Sandor heard her shout out over the crashing of the waves.

"It's not bad once you get used to it. Come on." Sansa beckoned him to join her with a wave of her hand as she smiled brightly.

"I don't have swim suit," Sandor called out to her. While he enjoyed the view the ocean provided, he wasn't exactly one to jump headlong into the water. Sansa, on the other hand, let go of her dress, which instantaneously was soaked up to her waist as one large wave crashed into her. Laughing on an exhale of breath, she pouted her lip and placed her hands on her hips.

"Please! I don't have a swim suit either. Look! I'm already soaked." With pleading eyes, she cocked her head ever so slightly to the side and gave a sweet smile. Shaking his head slightly, Sandor let his eyes fall to the ground in front of him.  _Fuck! This girl is already figuring out how to get to me._

Snorting out a laugh, Sandor pushed himself up and emptied his pockets, dropping the contents to the sand below where they plopped softly. Bending over, he rolled his pant legs up to mid-calf, not that he imagined it would make much difference. Reaching with one hand for the collar of his T-shirt at the back of his neck, Sandor pulled it over his head and let it drop next to the contents of his pockets.

Stilling in the water, Sansa seemed to sober at the sight of him, her eyes roaming over him until demurely falling away as if embarrassed he caught her staring at him. He supposed it was all good and well; how many times had he shamelessly leered at her? Besides, he imagined she was probably taken aback by the tattoo work on his upper arms and back which more or less remained covered the majority of the time. In fact, this was probably the first time she had seen any of his tattoos in their entirety.

Sandor sucked in a breath as his feet met the water, shocked at the initial coolness of he found there. As he slowly made his way towards Sansa, effortlessly wading through the waves that seemed to so easily knock her around, Sandor noticed she was standing still in the water, but her chest was heavily rising and falling with each breath. Chewing her bottom lip, she stared at him wide-eyed, her gaze falling over his naked torso. Undoubtedly, she had no idea she was staring. Sansa was too polite to knowingly leer at someone.

"You want me to take my pants off too while I'm at it?," Sandor cut in jokingly as he chuckled a rasping laugh.

With her eyes fluttering up to meet the smug smile creasing his lips, Sansa shook her head abruptly before squeezing her eyes shut. A flush of red emerged on her cheeks, a blush which indicated he had indeed caught  _her_ checking  _him_ out.

"What? Yes…no! I mean, no…God, sorry." Sansa's slew of disjointed words beckoned a hearty laugh from Sandor. She could stare at him like that all damn day for all he cared. In fact, a part of him was relieved that he wasn't the only one having to do all the staring.

The tension was broken as a wave crashed into them and sent Sansa stumbling forward in the water. In two large strides, Sandor made it to her side and pulled her up, noticing that she was now completely soaked. Her hair from the shoulder down was saturated and clinging to the exposed skin of her arms and back. Erupting in a fit of giggles, she eagerly took his hand until she steadied herself on her feet once more.

"Can you swim?," Sansa asked him as she caught her breath and let go of his hand.

"Well enough," Sandor replied with a shrug of the shoulders before setting narrowed eyes and a half smile on her. "Well enough to save you if need be." At that, Sandor reached down and swept his arm through the water, sending a splash to land across her chest and abdomen.

Squealing as she shielded herself, Sansa let her eyes fall to her side as she mimicked his motions, sweeping up the water and sending a smaller splash of water careening towards him.

"Or maybe I'll save you," she shot back with an uncharacteristically mischievous grin pulling on her lips.

He had considered making it all out warfare, had thought about bounding towards her and dumping her in the water to settle the score. Instead, all he could manage was the murmur of his words, his tone somehow becoming serious and his eyes imploring her earnestly.

"Maybe you will," he replied in a deep rasp with his gaze still heavily upon her.

Something about the sight of her entranced him; the way she smiled at him less like a girl and more like a woman, the way she was looking at him through heavy lashes, the way she would shyly bite her bottom lip and inadvertently drew attention to its fullness. Sandor found now it was him that wanted to drink in the sight of her.

Sansa was sexy without even knowing it. In fact, he bet she had no clue-  _none_ \- that his blood was now running hot through his veins, causing his cock to grow increasingly hard at the sight of her; the way she laughed breathlessly and gave a little gasp as the waves collided into her, the way her saturated dress clung to her body and offered him a clear sight of every delicious curve of her body, the way her bra and underwear were completely visible through the thin fabric.

Lifting his eyes to hers, Sandor suddenly became aware of the heat rising between them, both of them contributing equally to its radiant flow. Where he was staring at her, she was just as eagerly staring at him. Seemingly well aware of the surmounting tension between them, Sansa let her eyes fall away shyly as she abruptly set about twirling a lock of damp hair around her index finger.

"We should dry off," Sandor finally broke in as he motioned his head back towards the beach. Agreeing with a soft nod of her head, Sansa followed him out of the water and back towards the beach.

Sandor settled himself on the sand which still retained the heat of the setting sun and welcomed him with its warm embrace. Sansa carefully lowered herself to his right and began running her fingers through the ends of her hair. Sitting with his knees pulled towards his chest and his forearms resting on his knees, Sandor set his gaze off towards the sun setting over the water. He couldn't remember the last time he watched the sun set. It always seemed he was too busy to notice, too caught up in other bullshit to take the time.

In the periphery of his vision, he could see that Sansa was stirring next to him, shifting ever so slightly towards him. Turning his gaze over his right shoulder, Sandor saw that she was contemplating the tattoo on his right arm. Lifting her eyes to him, Sansa's lips parted slightly before pulling into a shy smile.

"You have tattoos," she said softly, her voice inflecting delicately as if her words were meant to be half a statement and half a question.

Exhaling a gentle laugh, Sandor nodded his head before rotating his right arm slightly to gaze down at the grim reaper tattooed from the top of his shoulder to right above his elbow. The figure spanned the width of his sculpted bicep and curved with the bulge of muscle.

The skeletal figure of the reaper was swathed in a heavy black robe and clutched a scythe which curved along with the natural curve of his shoulder. Despite being a skull, the face of the reaper appeared almost devilish, its skeletal mouth curled up in a menacing grin.

Sansa's eyes roamed over the ink quizzically, her gaze curious yet seemingly hesitant to inquire about the story of the tattoo.

"I got the reaper tattoo when I was 19," Sandor began as he motioned his head towards his right arm. "I thought I was a fucking bad ass then. Really, I was just out of control. Filled with so much anger and hatred. I didn't know how to channel that. I thought the world owed me something for all I had been put through up until then. I was reckless, put myself in a lot of situations where I could've been killed. For a long time, I was chasing after death. I didn't give a fuck if I lived or died. I wanted to fight, I wanted to destroy shit. I chased the reaper and that's how this particular tattoo came about."

As Sandor finished he shifted his stare towards Sansa, feeling a strange sense of trepidation. He wasn't sure how much he could reveal to her before she'd realize she was sitting on a beach with a mobster and began to fear him again. But instead of fear or hesitation, her eyes were filled with wonder as if she were wholly engrossed by what he was confessing to her. Sandor spun himself around so that he was sitting with his left arm towards her, the arm that contained the tattoo of the Archangel Michael.

With a tiny gasp, Sansa's eyes flickered about the tattoo on his left arm, seemingly admiring the detail. The tattoo spanned the same length of his arm as the reaper, extending from shoulder to right above his elbow. With his sword drawn over his head, the figure of Michael appeared to be engaged in battle. His eyes were pure white, appearing almost foreboding, and tears of blood spilled over his cheeks. The true detail was in his armor and wings which were inked to have a certain grotesque flair to them. In many ways, the figure of Michael appeared more menacing than the reaper.

"The tattoo of Michael I got when I was 22. With Alberto's direction and guidance, I calmed the fuck down by then. I wasn't such a loose cannon anymore. Don't get me wrong, I still have a temper, but I learned to control it a lot better and found ways to channel my aggression. I'm not a religious guy. I think most religions are bullshit, but I liked the idea of Michael the Archangel. He's a warrior. I guess it was my way of counteracting and balancing all the time I spent chasing the reaper. After I got it, Alberto joked that they were like the two sides of my conscience; I had the forces of good on my left shoulder, forces of evil on my right."

Nodding her head and tilting her gaze towards his back, Sansa's eyes flicked down at the tattoo before meeting his stare with a questioning expression playing about her face.

"And the one on your back?," she inquired softly.

"Have you heard of Dante's Divine Comedy?," Sandor asked as Sansa's eyes flicked back towards the tattoo. Slowly she nodded her head and scooted behind him.

"I had to read it for school," she responded as she began tracing the outline of the tattoo on his back with tentative fingers.

"Alberto has a book of illustrations by an artist named of Gustave Doré. The guy did these amazing illustrations depicting scenes from Dante's comedy. There was one picture in particular that drew my attention. It's a scene in Dante's Inferno where Phlegyas is taking Dante and Virgil across the River Styx. I saw it and was drawn to the picture before I knew what it meant. The scene plays out in the fifth circle of Hell where the wrathful are punished by being drowned in the river. I figured if I'm going to hell, I imagine I'll probably end up in the River Styx. It's really the only circle that matches my sins."

Although Sandor was joking, Sansa's eyes went wide as she considered the tattoo with renewed wonderment, her fingers still delicately working across his skin and sending chills up and down his spine. His back piece started at his shoulder blades and extended halfway down his back. It had been fashioned to look as though his skin had been torn away and underneath was the image from Dante's Inferno. Sandor had had to search high and low to find a tattoo artist willing to tackle a replication of Doré's work as well as masterfully create the illusion of the image appearing underneath torn away flesh.

"The back piece was a work in progress from when I was 25 to 26," Sandor began as Sansa adjusted herself next to his side once more and pulled her knees to her chest as she listened eagerly.

"Alberto's whole comment about good and evil stuck with me for awhile. I kept thinking about it and how it related to my life. The thing is, I've known lawyers, politicians, and judges who have done things so fucked up you wouldn't believe me if I told. Hell, just look at Nestor Royce! I've known cops-the people who are supposed to 'protect' and 'serve'-who are leaps and bounds worse than the criminals they put away.

And then there's the flip side to that coin. I've known mobsters who are some of the best guys you'll ever meet. They're family men; love their wives something fierce, make it a point to be great fathers, just all-around upstanding men.

At some point, the lines between good and evil blur and you don't know which side you're fighting for anymore. You don't know if it really even matters; if all the violence, fighting, and death is worth it or was ever worth it."

Sandor shifted his gaze to Sansa who was staring up at him, a look of confusion settling across her brow which was now furrowing under the heaviness of all his words. He wondered if she even understood, if she could even understand. She was a being of light, surrounded by purity and goodness. And how could light understand dark, the other half of itself, its anti-thesis? Sandor imagined it couldn't. Shaking his head as he stared off towards the expanse of beach surrounding them, he began again, his words somehow laced with a sort of jaded cynicism he doubted she would understand.

"Maybe the idea of good and evil are like fairytales we tell ourselves to make our lives more bearable. Someone wrongs you and you get to go to sleep at night convinced that they'll get theirs in the end. That some Universal force is going to sweep in and wreck havoc on their lives. Just like people tell themselves if they do enough good in the world, they'll be rewarded when they die, not even considering that when we die it may just feel like nothing, just darkness.

Maybe the concept of good and evil is something we use to cope with all the fucking horror of the world. We tell ourselves that our lives are just a microcosm of some bigger battle being fought somewhere in the Universe. That way when we hear about a child molester getting off light and roaming the streets because of some shit-stain like Nestor Royce, we feel like maybe it makes sense in some greater scheme of things because it sure as fuck doesn't make sense right here and right now."

Sansa remained quiet for many moments, her thoughts seemingly tumbling through her head as her eyes shifted about the ground in front of her. Slowly, she lifted her eyes towards him and searched his face, her eyes flicking from his lips back up to his eyes which were gazing intently back at her.

"And which side do you find yourself on? Good or evil." The question was posed innocently enough, yet the implications ran deep and right into a mess of unresolved bullshit he hadn't allowed himself to think about for who-knows how long.

Shaking his head as his eyes fell to the ground, Sandor shrugged his shoulders. He offered her as good an answer as he had. It was honest. Perhaps not what she wanted to hear, but it wasn't a lie.

"I don't know. I'm still deciding. Some days I feel like a good guy who does bad things. Other days I feel like a bad guy who does good things. I stopped trying to make sense of it a long time ago. I do whatever I think is right in the moment."

Sighing deeply, Sansa seemed perplexed by his answer and Sandor knew for a certainty it was indeed not the answer she wanted to hear from him. He was at a loss for what she expected him to say. She knew what he was, what he did for a living. It's not like he had ever tried to hide it from her.

"You've never done anything bad to me, though." As Sansa stared up at him with a doe-eyed look of wistful hopefulness, Sandor found himself irritated. He wanted her to see him for what he was, the truth of what he was, not some deluded version that she was projecting onto him.

Turning a deliberate stare towards her, Sandor lowered his voice, punctuating each word forcefully in his own wistful hope that maybe she'd understand.

"I kidnapped you. Held you against your will, let some a goddamn psychopath loose to find you. Took you to Las Vegas when I shouldn't have. Didn't tell you the truth when I should have. I've done more wrong against you than right."

At that, Sansa pursed her lips and adamantly shook her head, clearly not having heard a goddamn word he said or if she did, happily glazing over it.

"But you saved me." Sansa's voice came pleading from her lips as she placed her hand softly on his forearm and squeezed lightly with the tips of her fingers.

Lifting his hands, Sandor ran them slowly over his face in frustration. Lowering his arms once more, Sandor emphasized each of his words with a gesturing of his hands.

"I kidnapped you. Don't fucking romanticize this, Sansa. I'm a mob boss, not prince charming."

Undaunted, Sansa scooted towards him and lowered her head in front of his until she caught his eyes in a sincere stare. He was simultaneously touched and agitated with the way she was looking at him as if he were her savior. Granted he had saved her, she was turning this into something else entirely.

"You're a good person, Sandor," she started in, fixing eager eyes on him as if willing him to accept her words blindly. "You didn't have to come for me during the Royce party, but you did and you didn't even know me. You didn't have to come after me when I left with Nestor. You could have let me go, but you came for me anyway."

Feeling his anger steadily beginning to rise, Sandor turned his stare towards her and grabbed her by both arms, lowering his voice to a deep growl.

"Your head is filled with fairytales, girl. I make a living killing, hurting, threatening, and blackmailing people. I'm a murderer, a criminal. I saw one opportunity to do something good and I took it. That doesn't make me a fucking saint, that doesn't erase all the fucked up shit I've done."

With her brow knitting together in concern, Sansa shook her head stubbornly as she petitioned him to listen to her.

"You've kept me safe this entire time. That's not a fairytale, that's the truth." Her voice was soft, her words sweet, but it did little to quell the growing heat of frustration that was bubbling up from Sandor's core.

Snatching up her wrist, Sandor lifted it up in the air to make visible the healing marks left by the cord Leon had used to bind her up.

"What's this?," he demanded, dark and mocking. "And this?" Cupping her chin in his fingers, Sandor turned her head as he pointed to the bruise that had been left when one of Gregor's men hit her across the face during the botched kidnapping in Vegas. "What are these here?" Letting go of her chin, Sandor motioned towards the fading gashes about her legs where embedded glass had been from the Royce party.

Refusing to meet his stare, Sansa bit her bottom lip to stop it from trembling as tears began to well up in her eyes.

"You call that safe?," Sandor demanded as he tried his damndest to calm himself. "How many times have people tried to take you against your will in the last week? I'm just the lesser of the evils trying to get to you. That's all it is."

Taking deep breaths, Sandor ran his fingers through his hair before resting his forehead against the heels of his hands as his elbows rested on his knees. The last thing he wanted was to lose his cool with her, to scare her back to square one.

"That's all it is then?," she demanded right back at him with tears staining her cheeks, her eyes flooded with hurt. "You still haven't told me why you're willing to do all of this for me. If you say you're such a horrible person, then why are you willing to keep me safe? Why not my mother or Myranda or someone else at the party? Why me?"

Letting his eyes fall to the ground beneath him, Sandor silently shook his head, not knowing what to offer her in the moment. He told her no one would ever hurt her again and yet  _he_ had been the one to hurt her. He knew it by the way her lip trembled uncontrolled and tears were now pouring down her cheeks with soft sobs. Pushing herself up off the ground, Sansa abruptly rose to her feet as she swiped at angry tears with trembling hands and began to walk away from him. Instinctively, Sandor reached for her, snatching her up as his fingers easily encircled her tiny wrist with a firm grasp. Sansa yelped in surprise as he pulled her towards him. Tripping over her own feet, she careened towards him.

Cradling her fall with his open arms, Sandor let her collapse into him as her knees fell to the sand between his legs and her weight pressed hard against his chest. With one leg on either side of her, Sandor grabbed her other wrist as she feebly tried to pull away.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?," he rasped as he released his fingers from around her wrists and snaked one of his arms around the small of her back, pressing Sansa against his bare chest. Sandor's other hand reached for the back of her head, bunching up her damp hair that was drying into copper colored waves as it cascaded over her shoulders.

Entranced by the way her lips trembled whenever she cried, Sandor battled against the urge to press his lips against hers, to stifle her soft whimpering sounds with his mouth against hers, his tongue flickering against her lips to bid them to part for him. He wanted to taste her, wanted the warmth of her skin flush against his, wanted to make the crying stop with slow kisses against hot tears, his tongue all too eager to lap up the sorrow.

Pulling her closer against him until their upper bodies were flush, both their hearts pounding in their chests and each beating in time with the other, Sandor unbound his hand from her hair and steadied his stare on her face. Brought on by tears, her eyes shone a brighter blue than he had ever seen them. Her lips were swollen and full from the blood rushing through her body. She was beautiful. So fucking beautiful, even when she cried or maybe especially when she cried. With her face hovering a few inches in front of his, Sandor pressed his nose against her cheek bone and squeezed his eyes shut before letting his lips run lightly over her cheek until they reached her ear, nuzzling softly there. Lowering his voice to a gentle rasp, Sandor rested his forehead against the side of her head, his lips hovering over her ear.

"I came after you because I wanted to. And I kept coming after you because I wanted to. And if you walk away from me right now, even if it's on a fucking beach, I'm coming after you because I  _want_  to. Do you understand that? Do you understand what I mean when I say that, Sansa?"

With his eyes still closed, Sandor felt as she nodded her head slowly, stilling in his arms as her breath seemed to steady. He doubted that she truly understood what he meant. His words seem to pacify her for now, yet it was him who was coming undone. Sansa Stark could cry her tears until her lips trembled and her body quaked and he would be here to hold her until a stillness washed over her. But it was him who needed that stillness now as his mind raced and his heart began to damn near beat out of his chest. As if she had read his thoughts, Sandor felt one of her tiny hands press against his chest as she gently pushed herself just far enough away from him that she could look upon his face. Nodding her head, she set her eyes on his, her stare more intense and piercing than any he had ever seen from her. The corners of her lips pulled into a soft smile, a smile which steadied his breaths and sent his body buzzing with a warm flush of calm. How she sensed what he needed, the very moment he needed it, Sandor didn't know, but was content not to question it for now.

Sandor reached for her hand that was pressed against his chest and placed the palm of his hand against hers before softly circling his fingers around her delicate little fingers. Lifting her hand up while setting his eyes to her, Sandor gently pressed his lips to the top of her hand and watched as a tiny gasp escaped Sansa's lips.

"It's getting dark. We should head back," he murmured on a deep breath as he lifted his lips from Sansa's hand.

Silently, she nodded her head and Sandor rose to his feet, pulling her up with him while gathering his shirt and the contents of his pocket in his other hand. He did not let go of her hand, but rather adjusted his hold until their fingers were interlaced and slowly led her back towards the house. He may have told her he was no prince charming, but he sure as fuck felt like one in this moment and was surprised to find he didn't really care one bit as long as it stopped her tears and brought on her smiles.

* * *

Sansa washed the sand from her body, not understanding how so much of it had become plastered to every area of exposed skin. She didn't wash her hair though and instead pulled it up in a loose bun while she soaped off the remnants of the beach. Her heart was just now settling to a normal beating pulse and the butterflies had seemed to settle as well.

Lost in her thoughts and relishing the warmth of water rushing over her body, Sansa closed her eyes and gave a soft smile at the remembrance of Sandor's lips brushing across her cheek, his words deep and low in her ear. She had thought he might kiss her then. And she imagined she would have liked that very much.

After stepping from the shower and toweling off the beads of water from her body, Sansa changed into the tank top and pair of shorts Mirabelle had packed for her. Wiping the fog from the mirror, Sansa pulled her hair out of the messy bun and watched as it flowed in waves over her shoulders. She had forgotten how the ocean salt water seemed to elicit irreproducible waves to form in her hair. After brushing her teeth and removing her makeup, Sansa slowly stepped from the bathroom situated at the end of the hall and walked through the dimness of light towards the open living room area.

Seeing her hovering at the end of the hall, Sandor rose from the couch and settled his eyes on her. He too had rinsed off and changed into more comfortable clothes. As he approached her, Sansa felt her eyes timidly flutter away from his gaze as a soft blush crept across her cheeks. Luckily, the light from two side table lamps was far enough removed that he probably wouldn't notice how she was blushing at his approach.

Moving past her, Sandor led her back towards the end of the hall to the guest bedroom, opening the door and turning on the light for her.

"Will this be okay for you?," he asked her as she stepped into the room and swept her gaze over the small bedroom. It boasted a bed which looked comfortable enough, a small dresser which looked spacious enough for the contents of her bag, and the mimicked same rustic décor of the rest of the house which looked inviting enough.

Shifting her eyes towards her hands gently folded in front of her, Sansa bit her lip and Sandor must have immediately noticed her hesitation.

"Are you tired at all?," he questioned her, seemingly trying to puzzle out her trepidation.

Looking up at him, Sansa shrugged her shoulders. She was very tired and she knew he was undoubtedly tired too, having driven nearly 12 hours straight with only a few stops in between. The problem wasn't whether or not she was tired. The problem was that she wasn't sure she could fall asleep, regardless of how tired she was. She imagined she would toss and turn, find herself haunted by nightmares, and wake up at each and every little noise.

Stepping towards her, Sandor interrupted her thoughts as he took her by the hand.

"Alright, I have an idea."

Hand-in-hand, Sansa followed Sandor as he led her back down the hallway towards the living room and plopped down on the couch, pulling her down next to him.

With a puzzled stare, Sansa watched as Sandor rested his head against the back of the couch and turned to look at her.

"I'm going to do something I've never done before, Sansa," he began with his tone low and serious. "Close your eyes. No peeking."

Giggling, Sansa cocked an eyebrow at him before complying, squeezing her eyes shut. With her eyes still closed, Sansa heard the soft sound of shuffling as he shifted in his seat. Suddenly, she felt something on her lap. Instinctively, she opened her eyes and found a T.V. remote resting on top of her crossed legs. Picking it up, Sansa turned towards him with a smile pulling on her lips.

"I don't get it," she declared truthfully as she gently shook her head at him and flashed a confused stare.

"I don't share the remote. Not with anyone," Sandor replied in a low voice as he set a serious stare on her once more. "We'll watch whatever you want until you get tired enough to sleep."

Sighing a contented laugh, Sansa nodded her head in compliance before pointing the remote towards the T.V. and turning it on. A subtle blue glow emanated from the screen as Sansa flipped through channels. It was the typical assortment of late night T.V.; news programs, cheesy reality shows, re-runs of sitcoms from the 90's. Flicking the channel up button, Sansa stopped at what she saw and felt a small, devious smile creep across her lips. Subtly shifting her eyes towards Sandor, she watched as he seemed unfazed by what was on the screen. Slowly, the recognition bloomed across his face which contorted in disdain. Turning towards her at once, he adamantly shook his head.

"Oh no. Not this. Anything but this," he declared definitively, crossing his arms about his chest and snorting out a laugh.

Unable to hold back her giggle, Sansa pointed towards the T.V. as she shifted her body towards him.

"You don't even know what this is."

Sandor shook his head and animatedly mimicked her as he pointed a finger at the T.V.

"I have a sister. I know  _exactly_ what this is."

Sansa watched him, thoroughly amused at what she saw. The thought of making him watch this show was hilarious to her. Feeling comfortable around him now, she wanted to see how far she could push this. Crossing her arms about her chest and pouting her lip slightly, Sansa cocked her head to the side as she gave him a doe-eyed stare.

"You said anything," her voice implored gently.

Sighing deeply, Sandor ran his hands through his hair before letting his head fall against the back of the couch with the palms of his hand covering his face.

"Yes, but not this. Sansa, no. Something different. Please."

Sansa bit her lip to stifle the fit of laughter that was slowly threating to burst out of her.  _If he only knew how he looked right now._ It was as if she were asking him to walk across hot coals or lay down on a bed of nails.

Taking a deep breath to steady her voice, Sansa turned towards him and settled an even stare on his eyes which glimmered with a strange sort of pleading.

"Alright. I'll change it if you can tell me the red-headed lady's name."

Pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, Sandor groaned out loud and shook his head before narrowing his eyes at the figures on the T.V.

"Shit. I don't know. Carrie?," Sandor grumbled out as he swiveled his head towards Sansa. While she didn't particularly care one way or another about this show, Sansa found herself loving his response to the prospect of watching it _._ Eventually, she would relent and change the channel, but for now she had resigned herself to see this through.

"Nope," she announced proudly as she slowly shook her head at him with a smug smile creasing across her lips and her chin held high in the air. "That's Miranda. Carrie is  _that_ one, with the curly hair."

Furrowing his brow at the T.V., Sandor threw his arm up towards the screen in a gesturing motion before letting his arm fall heavily in his lap again.

"Who's this fucking loser she's with?," he inquired bluntly as he set a glare towards the screen.

"Mr. Big," Sansa choked out through a burst of laughter as she turned an amused gaze towards Sandor who met her eyes with an incredulous stare.

"Mr. Big," he responded slowly, as if it was the most ludicrous thing he had ever heard. "What the fuck kind of name is that? Is he in the mob or something?"

Erupting with laughter, Sansa gasped for breaths as she doubled over. Of course, he would think that a guy in a suit  _must_ be in the mob.

"What?! No! He's the guy she's in love with. And that's not his real name," Sansa informed through fits of laughter.

Shaking his head, Sandor fell silent as he cocked his head at the screen, scrutinizing the events playing out before snorting a mocking laugh.

"Look at this dude! With his fancy suit and his car with a driver. A real man drives himself around. He doesn't know what the hell he's doing." Sitting up slightly in his seat, he pointed an index finger at the screen. "Oh and look now she's walking away! It's like amateur hour with this guy."

Sansa brought her palm up to her face and shook her head. The thought that Sandor Clegane, mob boss of one of the most prolific organized crime syndicates on the west coast, was getting critical of Mr. Big, a fictional T.V. character, was too funny for words.

"It takes him awhile to come to terms with his feelings for her," Sansa informed as the tone of her voice evened out while she worked to catch her breath from laughing. "He goes after her eventually. He follows her to Paris and brings her back home."

"What a fucking sap," Sandor huffed out as he crossed his arms tightly about his chest before turning towards Sansa, pulling one of his arms away from his chest and holding it out towards her, palm facing up. "Okay. That's enough. Give me the remote."

Although his voice intimated finality in the manner, Sansa found herself spurred on by the ridiculousness of the situation.

"No," she replied flatly as she shook her head and wrapped the remote tightly in her arms. Shooting Sandor a taunting smile, she watched as his eyes narrowed threateningly at her.

"Hand it over," he demanded with a voice that feigned danger as he leaned towards her.

"Nope," Sansa exclaimed defiantly as she held her head high in the air, shaking it slowly from side to side.

Swiveling so that he was now fully facing her, Sandor leaned forward and lowered his voice until it sounded akin to a growl rumbling from his throat.

"I'll have that remote. Whether you will it or not."

Feeling a smile pulling on her lips once more, Sansa tentatively lifted her eyes to him and found he was glowering at her. Shyly, she shook her head at him as she scooted away and clutched the remote tighter to her chest.

Trying his hardest to maintain a fearsome demeanor, Sandor pulled his legs up on the couch and began slowly crawling towards her, reaching her in a few short strides of his arms and legs.

Squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head, Sansa could feel him hovering in front of her as he exhaled a laugh. Giggling madly with anticipation of him reaching her, Sansa curled up into a tight ball on the couch as she felt him gently settling on top of her.

"Give it to me. Now, girl," he demanded with a menacing growl.

Slowly peeling her eyes open, Sansa found Sandor above her, one hand on either side of her head and his legs straddling her on either side.

"I'm not afraid of you," she whispered as she met his eyes, a small smile pulling across her lips.

Smiling devilishly, Sandor narrowed his eyes at her as he cocked his head to the side.

"Is that right?," he inquired through a deep, groaning laugh as he began pulling on her arms to try and loosen her grip.

Squealing, Sansa pulled her knees tighter to her chest and writhed underneath him as he tried again to pry her arms open. Gasping for breath through fits of laughter, Sansa fought like mad against him, squirming and wiggling each time he tried to pull her arms away. Back and forth they went until both of them laughed in turn, demanded the other to relent, pushed, pulled, squirmed, pressed, and struggled against one another until they were both gasping, breathless and winded more from laughing than anything else. Eventually the laughter and movements slowed to a halt.

Sansa stilled underneath him, her heart pounding and her blood running hot through her veins as she met his eyes. His smile had faded away and all that was left was the burning intensity of his gaze as his eyes roamed over her, desperate with a yearning desire. It should have scared her; being underneath this hulk of man, entirely helpless as his eyes eagerly absorbed the sight of her body and lingered over the curve of her waist, the fullness of her breasts, the moisture on her parted lips. True to her word, Sansa wasn't afraid of him and instead she felt her body humming under the pressure of him on top of her and buzzing with an electric shock of her own desire as he stared hungrily at her. Only now did Sansa realize that through their wrestling, she somehow came to straddle him, one leg on either side of his torso and hung wantonly over each of his hips.

Sandor rocked gently into her, subtly pressing his hips into the back side of her legs. Seeing that Sansa was cradling the remote in her hands and pressing it against her chest, Sandor effortlessly encircled both of her wrists with one of his large hands and slowly lifted her arms so that they were situated above her head. With a renewed wave of heat coursing through her, Sansa's breaths were coming wild and frantic, her chest heavily rising and falling with each inhale and exhale. The movement caught his attention as Sandor gazed at the sight of her body on display beneath him. In slow, deliberate movements, Sandor placed his other hand on the side of her waist and gently squeezed his fingers there. A sudden jolt went through her and Sansa burst into giggles at the sensation. Grinning wildly, Sandor squeezed again and watched amused as another fit of laughter erupted through her lips as she squirmed desperately underneath him.

A few more times he did this, chuckling along with her as she laughed until she was breathless and pleading with him to stop the assault of tickles. Although he stopped squeezing her waist, Sandor let his hand remain there and instead set about slowly running his fingers from her waist up the side of her rib cage and back down. With her arms still pressed above her, Sansa watched as Sandor gently lowered himself on top of her, his chest pressing lightly against hers as his lips brushed against the side of her neck.

"Not afraid, huh? You're singing a different tune now, little bird," he groaned on a deep rasp, his breath warm against the wild pulsing of her neck.

For a few moments, Sandor stayed as he was, his fingers still carefully running up and down her side as he pressed his weight against her. Pulling away from her, Sandor sat up and removed his hand from her waist and pressed it against her forearm. Gently, he ran the palm of his hand against her forearm still situated above her head until it reached his other hand encircled around her wrist. Sansa's fingers loosened on the remote which fell from her hands and bounced from the couch. Neither of them cared about the remote anymore and Sansa let her fingers open so that Sandor's fingers could easily interlace with hers.

With the soft glow of the T.V. illuminating his form, Sansa could see he was panting slightly, his breath coming ragged from his lips. The palms of his hands pressed against hers were burning hot, his skin radiating the heat almost as intensely as Sansa's skin was radiating her own heat. Through the dimness of light, Sansa matched her eyes to his and found that the unbridled yearning she had seen there not moments earlier had softened. In its place, something else had begun to flood his eyes, something purer. The lust he had considered her with was now replaced with something deeper, something akin to admiration. He was no longer undressing her with his eyes, but instead looked at her as if she were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, like he was taking in some masterpiece of artwork.

With their fingers still intertwined, Sandor pulled her up until they were both sitting, facing one another. Sansa unwound her legs from his hips and sat Indian-style in front of him. Unbidden, a small frown fell over her lips at the loss of contact between her and Sandor. Her body already missed the warmth and weight of him on top of her. However, Sandor still hadn't unlaced his fingers from hers and instead their interwoven hands were resting softly on the small space between them. Beyond that, he was still gazing at her with that same stare; a stare that spoke more of respect, trust, and admiration than of lustful and aching desire. He still wanted her, she knew, and she also knew now that she wanted him too, but this ran deeper than that.

Sansa stared at their hands folded together for a moment before slowly letting her eyes wonder up until she met his stare. As her eyes met his, Sansa felt him undo his right hand from hers and watched at he brought it up to the side of her face. His fingers pressed gently against the side of her neck as his thumb ran along her jaw line until coming up to caress her cheek.

Unable and unwilling to break their stare, Sansa gazed back at him and allowed her lips to part with a slow intake of breath. Taking that as his cue, Sandor discreetly and unknowingly, most like, licked his lips as he leaned towards her, his head tilting ever so slightly to the right.

Pressing a soft kiss against her mouth, Sansa was surprised at how smooth and warm his lips were as they brushed against hers. Delicately, he massaged his lips over hers until his top lip matched hers and his bottom lip effortlessly found its place. It was a gentle kiss, surprisingly sweet in a man such as him and tentative as if he were testing the waters with her.

When he pulled away, Sandor allowed his forehead to remain resting against hers. Looking up at him, Sansa saw that his eyes were still closed as he took long, lingering breaths. Before he could open his eyes again, Sansa returned his kiss, leaning into him, but now it was her lips searching out his, her lips sweeping across his mouth which parted slightly in surprise.

And just like that, the delicacy and tenderness gave way to the release of passion. Wrapping his arms around her lower back, Sandor pulled her onto his lap with one firm tug, groaning against her lips as she timidly wrapped her legs around his hips. Instinctively, Sansa allowed her arms to drape across his shoulders and encircle his neck. She felt as his tongue ran slow and warm against her lips, begging them to part so he could deepen the kiss. When she did let them part, the burning intensity she had seen in him moments before seemed to manifest on his tongue which slowly swirled about hers, eagerly tasting and taunting her with each pass. As Sansa moaned softly into the kiss and shifted her weight on his lap to gain leverage, Sandor groaned deeply in return and pressed himself further into their kiss while one of his hands made its way to the back of her head, fingers lost in locks of her hair. Sansa felt as Sandor slowly moved his over hand down from her lower back and slid it underneath her bottom. With a push on her bottom that matched a rock of his hips, Sandor pressed her closer against him until their bodies were flush with one another.

When the kiss slowed and the weight of their bodies pressed together released slightly, Sandor let his hand fall from the back of her head and allowed it to meet his other hand which returned to the small of her back. With their foreheads and noses pressed gently together, Sansa's lips curled into a pleasured smile and she felt her heart skip a beat as Sandor returned that smile with just as much pleasure.

After a few moments like this, Sandor pulled away from her just enough so that he could look at her. His eyes flickered with a flurry of silent thoughts while his mouth still held a dazed smile. The darkness and brooding that typically accompanied him had cleared away and what was left behind was a surprising tenderness that even Sansa hadn't expected. Matching his eyes to her, Sandor lifted his hand to brush the hair away from her cheek. Closing her eyes contentedly, Sansa responded by tilting her head towards his hand and pressed her cheek further into his palm before slowly letting her eyes flutter open. When she met his gaze again, a look of pride had seemed to flood his eyes and once more she felt as though he were admiring her.

Wordlessly, Sandor wrapped her up in his arms so that she was cradled against his chest, her head nestled in the crook of his neck. Slowly, he lowered himself, and her with him, to lay down on the couch. With her legs tangled in his and her arms folded against his chest, Sansa looked up and watched as Sandor pulled a blanket from off the back of the couch with one arm and draped it over them.

Situating a pillow underneath their heads, Sandor draped his arm over her waist and gazed down at Sansa as she mindlessly allowed her fingers to graze across his chest and over the fabric of his shirt.

Removing his arm from her waist, Sandor brushed his fingers underneath her chin and lifted her head so that she was looking at him. Pulling her closer, he once more pressed his lips to hers in a kiss. This time it was neither delicate nor passionate, but rather slow and lingering, both of them content to savor and explore each other's lips. The movement of their lips and tongues against each other was sensual and warm; a gentle lick there, a throaty moan here, and the subtle motion of their bodies rocking against one another as they found their rhythm.

As the rhythm of their kiss slowed to a stop, they both pulled away ever so slightly, each with a contented and sleepy smile. Sandor once more brushed the hair from the side of Sansa's face with the back of his hand and leaned forward to plant a gentle kiss on her cheek before settling his head back on the pillow and closing his eyes with a deep sigh. Tucked in his embrace, Sansa fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. She didn't toss, she didn't turn, and she wasn't haunted by nightmares. She was safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely want to thank all you lovelies who leave the most wonderful and encouraging comments I could ask for. You all are the BEST and I could not have anticipated the amount of love you all are sending towards this fic. Thank YOU so much! I have the best readers EVER, hands down :) 
> 
> I had a few people ask what type of music I write to and request a playlist of sorts. If you enjoy reading to music, these are the songs I had on repeat for each chapter. 
> 
> Chapter 1  
> 1.) “Gods & Monsters” Lana Del Rey  
> 2.) “Cola” Lana Del Rey  
> Chapter 2  
> 3.) “In The Clouds” Under the Influence of Giants  
> 4.) “Sometimes the Line Walks You” Murder By Death  
> Chapter 3  
> 5.) “Folsom Prison Blues” Johnny Cash  
> 6.) “Panic Station” Muse  
> Chapter 4  
> 7.) “Mama’s Room” Under the Influence of Giants  
> 8.) “Undisclosed Desires” Muse  
> 9.) “Pyro” Kings of Leon  
> Chapter 5  
> 10.) “High” Lindi Ortega  
> 11.) “Hearts a Mess” Goyte  
> 12.) “Gimme Shelter” The Rolling Stones  
> Chapter 6  
> 13.) “If I Lose Myself (Alesso vs. OneRepublic)  
> 14.) “Side” Run The Red Light  
> 15.) “Clarity” Zedd ft. Foxes  
> Chapter 7  
> 16.) “Jungle” Emma Louise  
> 17.) “Paradise” Coldplay  
> 18.) “Mirrors” Justin Timberlake


	8. Chapter 8

 

**Gods and Monsters**

Chapter 8

* * *

It had taken him a week and a day to finally kiss her. He first saw her on a Friday and knew immediately he wanted her lips- pouty and perfect as they were- for himself and no one else. He had seen the way the other men looked at her; the hot-shot lawyers in their Armani suits, the perverted politicians with metal wrapped around their ring fingers as their menopausal wives meandered out of eye sight. Those men had wanted her too, but she had returned  _his_  gaze and not theirs.

A week and a day had felt more like forever and a day, but in some glorious and damn near miraculous series of fortunate events she was here with him and willingly offered him access to her gorgeous mouth; her soft lips growing bolder by the day yet in an entirely innocent sort of exploration of her sexuality, which he gathered was only now flourishing. That thought had made his blood pump hot through his veins and his heart beat hard in his chest; the thought that she was experiencing these things with him first.

And as they gently and slowly explored one another, Sandor knew with a relieved sense of satisfaction that she was indeed his and his alone; every tentative and playful nip on his bottom lip that she would give here and there, every caress of her fingertips that were ever so gradually moving lower down his chest and abdomen with each passing day, every time he'd slowly rock his hips into her, and every time she'd respond with a soft moan or mimic the movement all together, ever the diligent little learner who followed his lead.

But truly, it was him following her lead. Instinctively and from the start, he knew Sansa needed to take things slow and Sandor found he was entirely happy to oblige her in this. And he was never a man to take things slow. While calculated and meticulous in business, Sandor was impulsive and demanding where women were concerned. He had never really taken things slow with a woman before. There was never any need to. The women he had been with had already spread their legs for men before and he was just one amongst the ranks. He'd go hard and he'd go rough and usually he didn't care one way or the other about their pleasure. When he was done, he'd leave them sore and panting while he retreated wordlessly to the shower. The message was always sent and always received: they were expected to be gone by the time he got out of the shower.

All things considered, Sandor was exploring alongside Sansa, taking part of something he had never tried before and he found himself a bit unsure of what to do and what not to do. He wanted to make her feel good, to see her smile in the aftermath of her own pleasure, but more importantly, he wanted her to trust him and wanted her to know that she meant more to him than an opportunity to take care of his own needs. For the first time ever, a woman's needs had seemed to trump his own and Sandor found a growing sense of satisfaction in putting her first.

Sandor first kissed Sansa Stark on Saturday and had hardly been able to stop since then. Sunday was spent how Sunday's should always be spent; lazing about and doing nothing of consequence. And that's precisely what him and Sansa did; woke up late still intertwined on the couch and immediately set in with the kissing, ate, more kissing, pretended to watch some T.V. show until neither could fake it anymore and both had agreed that kissing seemed like a more entertaining prospect.

From the couch to the floor to the kitchen to the deck, he had kissed Sansa in every imaginable spot of the house, all but the bedroom, and on every part of her body that he could, from her slender neck to her graceful collar bone, from her shoulders to inside of her thighs near her knees which elicited a soft squirm and a gentle indication that that was a little too much. He had relented and thought that perhaps it was time to come up for air. She had suggested they play a game. Agreeing, he taught her how to play poker and let her win the first two games. After that, he hadn't needed to let her win because she was, much to his competitive chagrin, a quick learner and really fucking good besides. Eventually, Sansa's eyes betrayed her fatigue so Sandor carried her off to his bedroom and pulled her into his arms where she curled up eagerly and let out a purring sigh of contentment before falling into a silent sleep.

On Monday, a storm came through in the early evening and she had insisted on watching it roll in from the ocean. Sansa watched in wonderment as the waves churned against themselves, a perfect reflection of the sky above in all its ashen volatility. And Sandor had watched her; the wind whipping through cascading strands of auburn hair, the small smile of enchantment on her lips, the excitement glimmering in her eyes. It was as if she were glowing from the inside out, radiating her own sort of light and electricity that captivated him as much as the storm of the sky captivated her. A fear had struck him then as he watched her. It was sudden, it was inexplicable, and it hit him like a tidal wave of a storm, pulling him down with a furious and consuming finality. It was the same fear he had had all along, nothing had changed where that was concerned.

It was the enemy lurking in the shadows of his thoughts. It was the assailant of hard truths and harsh reality. It was the fear of loss. A man who has nothing to lose has no such fears, he knew. For as long as he could remember, Sandor had orchestrated his life such that he never held onto anyone or anything too long. He voided his life of precious possessions, all but Mirabelle. She had always been the one exception, but in the stark clarity of his mind, Sandor had finally admitted to himself what Sansa meant to him and more importantly what she was becoming to him. And only then was the fear of loss unleashed from the confines of his subconscious to assault him into an eerie silence.

It was a silence she felt because she had turned to him and her spell of enchantment was broken as her concern for him manifested in a frenzy of questions about what was wrong. He told her nothing of his fears, but instead spent the rest of the evening with Sansa wrapped up in his arms. She had eagerly complied and there she stayed; never asking why he wouldn't let her go or protesting in boredom. Instead, she effortlessly found her place next to him. Her calm breaths, gentle caresses, and sweet smiles had grappled his fear and caged the beast of his worries. By morning, he had awoken with her still willingly tucked in his embrace and Sandor found he felt much better.

Tuesday they had settled into a sort of routine, a quasi-glimpse of their future should the Universe throw him a bone and offer him happiness in the form of Sansa. He had done some work- made phone calls back to Bronn and few of his men, dealt with some contacts, drafted emails- and she had spent her time exploring his kitchen and mimicking all she had seen on the Food Network, anxiously diving into something she apparently enjoyed. By the time his work was done, Sansa was beside herself with excitement at having successfully prepared dinner for them with what little his pantry and refrigerator offered. Sandor was surprised to find she could cook and cook well at that.

Sitting across his small kitchen table from her, Sandor admired how perfectly feminine she was; delicate, soft spoken, nurturing, gentle. It seemed a match to how roughly masculine he was; her delicacy meeting his ruggedness, soft spoken words taming his vulgar ones, she provided gentle nurturing and he offered fierce protection in return. Something about that turned him on and he was unable to take his eyes off of her then. With his stomach full, a new hunger sent pangs of want through his body. Abruptly pushing himself from the table, Sandor had carried Sansa off, as she giggled and squealed, over his shoulder and towards his bedroom where he unceremoniously plopped her down on his bed. Breathless and blushing, she had looked at him wide-eyed, petrified that he might take her, right then and there. Although he was hard as a rock and aching with a need for release, it was then that he reassured her they wouldn't do anything until she was ready and that they should go slow.

And slow she had gone; slow as she made room for him on the bed and timidly looked up at him, seemingly so meek and vulnerable, slow as she scooted towards him after he had laid down next to her, slow as she draped her long, silky legs on either side of him with a slight blush, slow as she pressed her weight down on top of him and offered him a kiss that was lingering in its own right, slow as she lifted herself back up and gazed at him before running the tips of her fingers over his chest and abdomen, slow as she shyly swiveled her hips in a gradual and unhurried circular motion with only just the slightest of pressure. With his hands behind his head, Sandor had watched, eagerly soaking up the sight of her on top of him, rocking her hips as she blushed sweetly and bit her lip nervously.

Tentatively, she had lowered just a bit more of her weight on top of him, inadvertently easing herself down onto the hardness of his cock. When his eyes closed and his head fell to the pillow with a grunt resonating from the back of his throat, Sansa had let out the tiniest of gasps and let up a bit, as if she were silently apologizing for whatever she had elicited from him.

Opening his eyes and looking at her once more, Sandor had removed his hands from the back of his head and grabbed her by the hips, producing yet another little gasp from her sweet little lips. Leading her movements, Sandor worked her hips until the circular movements had reached just the right speed and her body had lowered onto him to produce just the right amount of pressure. As he let go of her hips and put his hands back behind his head, Sansa let her eyes fall away from him as she mimicked what he had shown her; each circular motion becoming more confident than the last until eventually her eyes met his once more.

As she looked at him, he had smiled admiringly at her through pleasured moans. By the way she blushed and the way her lips parted with ragged breaths, Sandor knew with a certainty she had never done this before. By the way she had swiveled her hips and arched her back into her movements, Sandor knew with a certainty that although she had never done this before, she was enjoying herself. He had readily soaked up the sight of her on top of him and welcomed the rush of heat that flowed between them. Releasing one hand from the back of his head, Sandor had reached for her; his fingers searching out her neck as his thumb ran over her lips which parted even further against his touch.

Her skin was soft and warm against his, her lips perfectly hot and eager as she leaned down to kiss him, and her touches seemed to intuitively seek out sensitive spots on his body. Her mouth grazed the spot under his left ear while her fingers worked through his hair or down the broad part of his chest.

At that, Sandor had sat up abruptly, his tongue gaining easy entrance in her mouth as she gasped in surprise. In one swift motion, he had shifted his weight until he was on top of her and his need was pressing shamelessly against her. In his own slow movements, Sandor had abandoned her lips in favor of her neck, running his tongue along the side where he felt her pulse throbbing like mad. He easily traversed her collarbone and had taken a moment to look up at her. With Sansa's eyes glistening in something between desire and wonderment, she looked down at him and softly ran her fingers through his hair. He returned her stare as he worked his lips from one side of her collar bone to the other before working his way to the tops of her breasts. The fullness of them was emerging from underneath the tank top she wore, offering just enough area for him to explore with his lips before giving gentle licks which terminated in soft kisses. Seemingly having found a sensitive spot on her body, Sandor felt her arch into him as her hands worked over his biceps and shoulders, her fingers clutching him firmly with each murmured exhale of breath.

He knew full well he was reaching the point where it would be harder to stop himself so reluctantly Sandor had slowed his ministrations at her breasts to a stop. Hovering on all fours over her, he had lavished his attention once more on her mouth which had apparently missed him. She licked at his lips, gave the tiniest of nips, and sexiest of moans before he deepened the kiss with as much eagerness as he had the first time he kissed her.

With his cock twitching in reminder of how badly he wanted her, Sandor had abruptly pulled himself away completely and retreated to the bathroom where he offered himself relief to the visions of her in his head; her rocking against him, the shy little moans, wolfish nibbles at his lips, the softness of her breasts against his mouth. He had imagined it all until the release came and he had nearly doubled over from its blinding intensity.

If Sansa was privy to what exactly he did in the bathroom, she never let on as she welcomed him back into her arms with a sweeping smile and a soft kiss on the lips.

From there, the passion had ebbed into gentleness, the heat of desire flowing to the perpetual warmth of tenderness; the kissing terminating into embraces as he ran his fingers through her hair and listened to the sound of her breathing. Once more, he fell asleep with her in his arms. By now it was implicitly and wordlessly understood that that was where she belonged each night.

Routine had reestablished itself today until Sandor put aside work and found Sansa perched outside on the last step of the deck, picking at clover flowers and working them into crowns and necklaces. When he came upon her, she looked like a relic of 1969's Woodstock, flowers placed around her head of long hair and around her wrists as she sat barefoot in a white sundress. Had he not been so exhausted, he would have laid her down in the bed of clovers and devoured her with his lips. Instead, he laid her down in his bed with the flowers still in her hair and she happily fell asleep in his arms as he took an afternoon nap.

Now as Sandor shifted against her, he could tell by the rhythm of her breaths that she was still asleep. Propping himself up on one elbow, he leaned over her and saw that sure enough her eyes were still shut and her lips slightly parted as she slept. Sandor lowered himself closer to her until his lips pressed gently against the spot under her ear. Slowly, he planted kisses down her neck until she stirred against him and pulled in a deep breath. Reaching up, Sansa's hand found its way to the side of his face as her fingertips softly grazed his skin. As Sandor lifted himself off of her, Sansa turned to lay on her back as she smiled up at him. Her crown of clover flowers was crooked on her head, some of the flowers disintegrated to pieces on the pillow.

"Is it the morning?," Sansa inquired in a voice a tone deeper than normal, the effects of sleep beginning to wear off.

As he pressed a lingering kiss to her lips, Sansa let out a contented little sigh as she brought her arms up around his neck.

"Nope. Still today," Sandor finally replied as he pulled himself away from the kiss before setting about running his fingers through her hair and picking out little pieces of crushed flowers. "Your birthday is tomorrow."

Sandor felt Sansa go tense underneath him, her arms rigid around his neck and the sweet, sleepy smile contorting into an uneasy frown. His words seemed the verbal equivalent of ice water, abruptly shocking her from any residual sleepiness. Saying nothing, she stared up at him with troubled eyes; pools of blue that ran deep and murky with more sorrow than he had ever seen in them before.

"What's wrong?," he rasped urgently. He had thought her birthday would be something for her to look forward to, but seeing her now with her heart crushed as thoroughly as those little clover flowers about her head, Sandor understood. While he had plans for her birthday, undoubtedly her parents had had plans for her too. This would be the first of many milestones celebrated without her mother and if Sandor knew anything, he knew the firsts were always the hardest. He remembered his first birthday, first Thanksgiving, first Christmas without his own mother. And then without his father too.

Understanding something of her pain, Sandor lowered himself next to her side and placed his hand on her stomach while he observed her. Still on her back, Sansa had turned to stone as she stared up at the ceiling, one arm next to her side and the other with her hand on top of his.

Slowly reanimating back to life, Sansa turned her head towards him, her face calm and placid, but her eyes still turbulent waves of renewed sorrow.

"I had forgotten," she whispered to him on something that sounded akin to a guilty confession. It was as if she had lost herself in his world and was only now remembering something of her former self. The remembrance seemed to hold a sting of pain. "I knew it was coming up, but the days have just seemed to run together."

Without breaking his stare, Sansa gently eased on her side so that she was now facing him. Delicately, she ran her fingers across his collar bone, to his shoulder, and then down his arm before retracing her path back up to his collar bone.

"How did you know?," she finally asked him while her fingertips mindlessly ran smooth circles down his arm.

Sandor took a moment before responding, well aware that confiding in her he had seen her birthday on the forged missing person's poster was definitely creepy in its own right and probably not something she wanted to hear right now. Instead, he settled for something that might break the heavy veil of tension and disquiet that seemed to have blanketed them.

"I have my ways."

With that, Sandor gave her a mischievous smile before draping his arm over the curve of her waist and pulling her closer to him until their chests were flush with one another. Her delicate little fingers abandoned his arm and began working across his chest as she lifted her eyes to him, eyes that seemed to settle into a compliant sort of calm.

"When's your birthday?"

A soft smile graced her lips as she waited for his answer while nuzzling her head against his chest. If something had been bothering her, she was content to hold it inside for now. Sandor wouldn't press the issue; when she was ready to talk about it, she would. Until then, he would let the conversation turn to his birthday, which was something he usually and willingly forgot each year.

"November 18th."

Sansa seemed to grow curious at that, swiftly reading into the omission of the year of his birth.

"How old are you?," she asked hesitantly, pulling away slightly and allowing her eyes to follow the direction of her fingers that continued their work back and forth across his chest. He could tell that she was worried she might offend him by asking, as if he were one of those people that guarded their age like it were some sort of precious secret.

"How old do you think I am?," Sandor mocked playfully in reply. He typically hated banter like this, the "beating around the bush" bullshit that some people favored over straight-forward offerings of truth. However, his own curiosity was rising along with his new found fondness of putting Sansa on the spot and watching her squirm. All in good fun though, of course.

"Hmm."

Sandor watched as Sansa lifted a thoughtful gaze to the ceiling and felt her humming reverberate against his chest.

"28," she declared definitively and with a confident nod of the head.

Slowly, Sandor shook his head as he smiled at her and began running slow kisses down the length of her neck.

"I'll be 30 this year," he murmured into the softness of her skin as he felt her melt into him. Through their days together, he had found this to be the sure-fire way to render Sansa putty in his hands. It seemed her neck was the place she enjoyed being kissed the most, as of now at least.

"That's an important birthday," Sansa countered breathlessly as her body subtly writhed with the fluttering of pleasure. Sandor stopped his service to her neck and pulled away, nodding his head before resting it back on the pillow.

"So is 18. It's an important year for both of us," he agreed before settling his arm once more in the curve of her waist. Sansa's brow furrowed as she bit her lip and Sandor could almost see the thoughts churning in her head, each pass unsettling her more than the last.

"Do you think I'm too young?"

If the worried expression painted across Sansa's face was anything to go by, she had already answered the question for him, already believing that he viewed her as some young thing and all that that implied to her. He could see her falter at some sort of self-perceived inadequacy, some unfounded worry that he wanted someone older and consequently more experienced than her.

Without hesitation, Sandor answered her and offered her the truth, or at least most of it.

"No because you don't act young. You carry yourself like a woman. That's what I care about. Not your age."

Indeed, it was all he cared about. He knew women twice her age who still acted like typical 18 year old girls. But Sansa was not a typical 18 year old girl. She was poised, graceful, and carried herself with the self-respect of woman yet with the same untarnished innocence of a girl. The full truth was that regardless of their age difference, he had come to find that she was what he wanted. He could have his pick of women who flocked around the Moriarti mansion in search of a made man, but none appealed to him the way Sansa did.

Giving a relieved smile, Sansa looked up at him as she pulled the broken crown of clover flowers from her head and smoothed her fingers over the tumbling waves of her hair.

"Are you hungry?," Sandor murmured, stroking the tips of his fingers across the side of her face as she nodded her head in reply.

"What do you want to eat?," he inquired.

Biting her lip and staring up towards the ceiling again in thought, Sansa hummed quietly as her mind worked.

"Pancakes."

Sandor felt a smile creep across his lips in his own sense of relief; relief that he didn't have to coerce her to make a decision and relief that she picked something that could be made with relative ease.

"Pancakes, she says. I know how to make those," Sandor proclaimed with a self-assured grin. "Want me to show you?"

Sansa eagerly nodded her head as she sat up and gleefully hopped from the bed, pieces of disintegrated clover flowers dancing from her hair.

* * *

She had almost forgotten her birthday. Her 18th birthday.  _How could I forget about something like that?_ Following Sandor down the hallway and towards the kitchen, the thought troubled her as it swelled in her mind, taking on a life of its own.

Age is just a number, or so they say. If that were true, then why did people care so much about age and aging? It was as if an age carried a certain predetermined set of experiences. An 18 year old couldn't possibly have the same set of worldly knowledge as a 30 year old. In turn, a 30 year old surely isn't as wise as someone twice their age.  _Or so they say._

But age is just time and time, like so many other things, is a man-made convention used to understand and rationalize the world around us, a world full of so many uncertainties. When the world around us no longer makes any sense, time seems to fall away, no longer important and age really truly just becomes a number. For Sansa, her world stopped making sense the night of the Royce party and time had slipped away from her, the days quite literally bleeding into one another until nothing remained, but a chaotic mess of confusion.

In the back of her mind, she had known her 18th birthday was fast approaching, the omnipresent cusp of adulthood cresting on the horizon of time. However, that remembrance and intrinsic knowledge was always quickly washed away by the near constant deluge of other thoughts. After all, 18 was just a number and if life-altering experiences were the measuring stick of age then Sansa was already well into adulthood, that rite of passage taken almost two weeks ago. Her birthday was now a moot point; frivolity more than a necessary festivity.

Two weeks ago, adulthood meant freedom, possibilities, independence, and the promise of exciting new changes. The number "18" represented setting off on her own, forging ahead with her own life, moving away from home for the first time ever and finally being able to see something of the world; new experiences, new friends, a new life of sorts. Of course, her parents would always be there for her. They would see her off, but should she ever need their support, guidance, and love, they would always be there with open arms, to embrace her when the road got tough or to catch her if she fell.

Two weeks ago seemed like a lifetime and everything she had ever wanted with adulthood had been given to her in spades. Sansa wanted changes and those had been devastatingly delivered. Possibilities and independence, her entire life was now a looming question mark. The possibilities for her future were endless and ranged from death to love to pain to joy. She had always wanted to leave home and now it seemed as if she would never get to go back. Her safety net of protection had been ripped away from her and now Sansa felt as though she were dangling off a cliff of uncertainty; should she fall, it was entirely possible that no one would be there to catch her.

New friends were more like unexpected friends; those friendships and connections forged when she had least anticipated it. And the most unforeseen aspect of it all was the bond she shared with Sandor; a connection which had surpassed friendship and was quickly evolving into something much more, something far beyond either of their control.

Each night Sansa would drift asleep wrapped in his arms and each night she would wake up just once, always just once. She wouldn't stir and she doubted Sandor knew, but in the haze of sleepiness she would struggle to remember where she was. The haze would then lift and like waking up from a dream, the remembrance would flood her mind and Sansa would suddenly realize once more where she was; in the arms of a man she was still trying to understand, in a situation she was still trying to wrap her head around, and with her prospects still entirely unclear.  _'Whose life is this?,'_ she would think to herself then because it hardly seemed her own. And perhaps that was the hallmark of adapting, survival and growth; the ability to look in on her situation with eyes from above and question everything she saw with an objective scrutiny. What she saw was herself with a man who was something of a stranger to her still. A man who could all too easily turn out to be a monster after all.

But as Sandor's arm would squeeze around her tighter and he would pull her closer, Sansa would remember with a visceral cognizance that this was her life now. And with that, her heart would both sing to the heavens and break to oblivion; in raptures over the affection she had found and in misery over all she had lost.

She was struggling to understand who she was becoming and what exactly she was leaving behind. As if caught in the gusts of a storm, Sansa reached out desperately to the pieces of herself she wished to keep before they were blown away; each time she reached out to grab that piece another would flitter away from her. Sansa feared if she kept fighting to remain the girl she was before, she would lose sight of the woman she was becoming now.

But even she had to admit that every moment spent wrapped up in Sandor's arms with her lips pressed against his felt like a strange sort of heaven; a corner of light and happiness in a room that was otherwise dark. The happiness she felt with him seemed traitorous, like she was short-handing sorrow and that debt was meant to be paid with interest. Each smile, each giggle, and every fluttering of butterflies in her stomach was done in the face of pain, taunting the suffering she imagined she should be feeling.

If Sandor had taught her anything, it was that despite all she had lost she still deserved happiness. He was a savior to the pain she felt; the ice to the slow burn of loss, the tourniquet controlling her bleeding heart, the shot of morphine to dull the ache. They were remedies to the pain, but healing was the ultimate cure and healing would take time, she knew. Sansa allowed Sandor to ease her aches, to bandage her heart with warm embraces and soft kisses. The wounds remained, but the pain was stymied for now.

Sansa perched herself up on the bar stool at the kitchen counter and rested her elbows against the cool granite of the countertop. She watched in amusement as Sandor opened cabinet doors, perused the contents, and then pushed the doors shut before moving onto the next. He did this in no particular order; his eyes roaming the kitchen as if trying to remember where things were. The remembrance would seem to emerge in his mind, but his face would flicker in frustration as he realized the contents staring back at him were not what he was looking for.

Luckily for him, Sansa had already found her way around his kitchen, the kitchen he so obviously rarely used. Shaking her head and exhaling a small laugh, Sansa leaned forward with her forearms flush against the countertop.

"What are you looking for?," she finally asked, realizing his agitation was steadily gaining on any sort of patience he had maintained up until now.

Placing his hands on his hips and furrowing his brow, Sandor let his eyes continue to roam around the kitchen as he spoke.

"A bowl. You know, the big kind." Removing his hands from his hips, Sandor gestured to approximate the diameter of bowl he was looking for.

"You mean a mixing bowl? Those are in the bottom cabinet to the left of the sink," Sansa replied matter-of-factly with faint amusement that bordered on smugness.

Sandor Clegane may be collected and in charge of every other arena of his life, but Sansa doubted he was  _Don_ of the kitchen. That title was one Sansa had effortlessly usurped from him. Seemingly understanding her new role as much as she did, Sandor pointed an index finger at her and shook his head before pacing towards the cabinet next to the sink.

"You. You know your way around my kitchen better than I do. You know what that means?"

Satisfied with herself, Sansa settled back in her seat and allowed her lips to pull into a contented smile.

"You want me to do the cooking?"

Although her response came out more questioning than intended, Sansa imagined she knew what the answer might be.

"That's exactly what that means," Sandor nodded as he placed a large mixing bowl on the counter. "For now, though, I'll do the cooking. You just sit there and watch how it's done," he added confidently, his tone entirely authoritative. If Sandor doubted his abilities in the kitchen, he wasn't letting on as he puffed out his chest and reached for a large spoon.

"First," he began as he settled a demonstrative stare onto Sansa, "you need the tools. A bowl and a spoon."

"What about a measuring cup?," Sansa cut in as she suppressed a small laugh. Shaking his head, Sandor pointed an index finger at her again as his other hand came to his hip.

"You just listen. I was getting to that part."

As Sansa lifted her hands up in the air in concession, Sandor coyly slid open the drawer to his left and pulled out a measuring cup before setting it on the counter.

"Now, you need the ingredients," Sandor set in once more as he walked towards the pantry and rummaged through the first couple of shelves before reaching towards the back.

Pulling out a box and turning around, he methodically walked towards the counter, his head held up high with a self-assured smile as he placed a box of Bisquick on the countertop.

"Bisquick and..." Drawing out his last word, Sandor lifted the box and scrutinized the side where the directions were, scanning the words until he found what he was looking for.

"Water. Bisquick and water. Those are the ingredients," he declared with a confident nod of the head.

"Wait!," Sansa cut in once more, laughing and holding her arm out for him to stop. "It's all too easy if you just make it from the box."

"Yeah. That's the whole point," Sandor shot back defensively, as if the thought of making something from scratch was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard. "This is how men make pancakes, girl. Now are you going to keep interrupting or are you going to watch me make pancakes the  _right_  way?"

Shaking her head, Sansa motioned towards her lips, imitating the pull of a zipper. Sandor's smug cockiness was endearing, especially as she noticed he didn't actually measure out the water, but instead pushed the measuring cup out of the way and eyeballed the water by holding the mixing bowl under the sink.

"Alright, I've got my water in there. Now I need to mix. Watch closely now because this is the most important part."

Sansa bit her lip to stop the eruption of giggles eagerly working to burst from her lips. She had made pancakes many of times. Bisquick or no Bisquick, the mixing part was hardly the most important step. However, Sansa decided it best to humor Sandor's seriousness as he spoke and so she swallowed down laughter and protests alike.

Lifting the spoon, Sandor began mixing slowly, turning the spoon around the side of the bowl before pulling it through the center of the mixture, which was entirely too watery. Pushing the bowl aside with a satisfied smile, Sandor leaned over the counter and settled a deliberate stare on her.

"Now I need my pan to cook this in."

Once more his tone was serious, his face stoic, as if this were as important an undertaking as some mafia-related task. It was more than Sansa could take and she immediately lifted a hand to cover her mouth as she erupted in laughter. Standing up to his full height, Sandor rested his hands on his hips and narrowed his eyes at her in a reprimanding stare.

"Sansa, I don't think you're taking this seriously."

Meeting his deadpanned stare, Sansa burst into another fit of laughter as she squeezed her eyes shut and felt tears running down her cheeks, her body squirming in her chair as she was overcome with giggles. Opening her eyes once more, she found that Sandor had cracked a half-smile before winking at her, his guise of seriousness melting away. That seemed enough to stifle Sansa's laughter as she watched him gather up a pan before setting it on the stove and turning on the burner.

She regarded him with wonderment as he continued his monologue; authoritatively narrating each of his movements with confidence and self-assuredness, completely oblivious to the fact that the watery mixture he had made would probably end up less like pancakes and more like crepes.

Swiping away tears of laughter from her cheeks, Sansa felt the now all-too-familiar stirring in her stomach, the subtle assault of butterflies, as her head seemed to spin with a gentle dizziness. The same sort of out-of-body consciousness returned to Sansa as she watched Sandor.  _'Who is this man?,'_ she wondered to herself as she watched him, feeling as though she was seeing him for the first time. She knew well enough the sordid details of his childhood and history and she even knew much of his likes and dislikes. However, the question resonated in her mind disbelievingly with a strange sort of enchantment. He was a mob boss yet he was making her pancakes. He possessed a violent temper yet treated her gently. Once more, she was at a loss and left to wonder where the Hound ended and Sandor Clegane began. Then again the same might be said for her; where did Sansa Stark the girl end and Sansa Stark the woman begin?

Sansa remembered a conversation with Myranda they had had not too long ago. It was the first lazy day of summer and they had spent it by the pool in the Royce backyard. College boys had been the topic; what they were like, how they would meet them, and all the ways they would be better than high school boys. Both Sansa and Myranda had crafted their dream man in turn; each coming up with a veritable wish-list of all the qualities their future boyfriend would have to possess. Naturally, Sansa's list was quite different than Myranda's, but that night Sansa had imagined her dream man made real. When she closed her eyes, she could see him. He had looked an awful lot like a young Laurence Olivier; classically handsome, eyes she could lose herself in, a smile that would make her heart skip a beat. He would be intelligent, extraordinarily kind, and, of course, handsome. He would be a man who could make her laugh, who would treat her like his Queen, and was ambitious, driven by his passions.

She had hoped she could dream this man to life; that she'd walk into her English class or maybe Biology lab on the first day of college classes, and there he'd be. He'd look at her and smile. She would of course smile back and probably blush, but this dream man of hers would find that entirely endearing. Through class there would be subtle glances back and forth until the professor dismissed them. He would ask for her name, which she would politely give. Study dates, coffee breaks, and trips to the library together would lead to stolen kisses between the stacks, hand holding across the Quad, and declarations from all that they were the cutest couple on campus.

Hardly noticing as Sandor cursed a slew of profanities at the pancakes not cooperating in the pan, Sansa remembered back to her list, the list of qualities she wanted in this dream man of hers. A strange sort of thing had happened to where now when Sansa closed her eyes, she saw Sandor. Granted, he looked nothing like Laurence Olivier who was far too "pretty" to resemble the rugged masculinity that Sandor so effortlessly possessed. In fact, the prospect of some "pretty" boy seemed unappealing to her. She longed for strength now; strong arms to hold her and a stronger heart to love her.

Beyond that, Sandor made her laugh, all the time she laughed at the things he said even though she knew he wasn't even trying to be funny. And he was smart. He never went to college and probably never would, but his intelligence was a savvy sort of cleverness, an intuitive and practical understanding of how the world worked and, more importantly, how to maneuver through it.

He was rough-around-the-edges and vulgar even now as he continued his verbal berating of the pancakes in the pan, but he had never mistreated her. In fact, he had regarded her with his own sort of kindness from the start, whether she realized it or not. She told him she wanted pancakes and here he was, fumbling about a kitchen he had probably only used a handful of times, but doing it because he knew it would make her happy. Since coming here, not a night had gone by where he didn't hold her until morning, undoubtedly staving off the nightmares that would have haunted her otherwise. He had turned his life upside down and inside out to keep her safe, without question and without a second thought.

And handsome, he was like no man she had ever met before. His facial features, much like the rest of him, seemed sculpted out of stone; his jaw line sharp, his nose prominent and hooked, his brow masculine. When she had first seen him, his scars had stood out to her, the faint glossiness of healed tissue catching the light. Having become accustomed to them, the scars were really not that noticeable. Most of the time, he kept is long, black hair swept over the burned side of his face. She was surprised to find she rather enjoyed his hair; running her fingers through the soft strands and admiring the way it so thoroughly suited him.

It hadn't occurred to her that she could find a man like him so attractive. He was tall, so tall, and more muscular than any man had a right to be. Sansa had known that before she saw him shirtless. The breadth of his chest and shoulders alone suggested that his muscles were toned, but nothing like she had seen at the beach their first night here. She had felt embarrassed when she caught herself gaping at the sight of him and felt as though she might die of mortification when she realized he too had caught her staring. However, he had seemed to like it and it seemed to spur him on. She imagined she could understand and she did. Sansa found that she enjoyed the way he looked at her too; as if he could devour her whole, with his eyes at least or perhaps more.

As he had explained his tattoos to her, Sansa had fought against herself when a sudden urge to touch him had coursed through her. Succumbing to it, she had traced the outline of the tattoo on his back with her fingers as she listened to him, spellbound by all he had told her. She had never imagined she would be into a man with tattoos, after all the "Laurence Olivier" behind her eyes undoubtedly did not have tattoos. Whether it was the tattoos themselves or the story behind them, Sansa found the ink only fueled the attraction she felt towards Sandor; an attraction that was unconventional to say the least, but undeniably captivating nonetheless.

That attraction was slowly settling in her cheeks which were flushed with red as Sandor triumphantly declared that he had successfully made her pancakes. Turning towards her and setting a plate of burnt pancakes in front of her, Sandor smiled proudly at his work.

"The first ones are a little burned on the outside, but I think it will be alright. Let me know what you think." Handing her a fork and a bottle of syrup, Sandor went back to the stove and busied himself with another batch of pancakes still cooking on the pan.

The pancakes were more than a little burned on the outside, they were thoroughly charred. As Sansa bit into the pancake, she found that the inside was still gooey with uncooked batter. With Sandor turned away from her as he worked at the stove, Sansa fought to chew and swallow, stifling the gags as she quickly and discreetly spit out the half-chewed bite of pancake into a napkin.

Sandor turned away from the stove and paced towards her, the same cocksure smile formed across his lips as leaned on the counter in front of her with spatula still in hand.

"So, what do you think?," he asked slyly, his eyes gleaming with pride and his own brand of assured swagger.

"Here," Sansa replied as she pushed a piece of pancake onto her fork and held it up towards his mouth. "You tell me what  _you_ think."

Considering her carefully and through narrowed eyes, Sandor took a bite from the fork. As he chewed on the bite of pancake, his face dropped and Sansa saw him gag as he swallowed.

"They're terrible," he groaned as he shook his head in defeat. Laughing, Sansa propped her knees up on the stool and leaned over the counter, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

"It was a good try," she reassured through a sweet smile, her lips sweeping across his as she spoke. "You get an A for effort."

"Don't butter me up, girl," he muttered gruffly in reply. Sansa felt his mouth pull into a smile before he stood up once more, dropping the spatula dejectedly against the counter.

If his pancake pride was wounded, and Sansa imagined it was, Sandor never let on as she gently offered to try her hand at making pancakes. As she retrieved what was left of the soupy pancake batter, Sansa set about fixing all the little mistakes that had ultimately led to a pancake catastrophe. She offered "suggestions" rather than declarations of all he had done wrong, mindful that the wounds of a man's ego often ran deep even if it was over the most ridiculous of things.

After thickening the batter and turning down the temperature of the stove burner, Sansa gently offered a plate of fluffy golden pancakes to Sandor which he eyed approvingly before devouring. Silence and a half-smile was his acknowledgement that she had done well and with that Sansa was satisfied, happily nibbling at her creation in the seat next to him.

With their meal coming to an end, Sansa swiveled in her seat and broke the satiated calm that had pleasantly descended upon them.

"When I was outside, I noticed you have a detached garage. What's in there?"

Sansa's eyes mindlessly followed her fork smearing a bit of pancake through a river of syrup and melted butter. Even she could not say why she still felt shy asking Sandor questions, as if he might reject her curiosity-driven inquiries. He had never done so before so she imagined he would not start now. Still, her question was spoken softly and apprehensively.

"I do," Sandor nodded, pushing his plate away from him and settling back in his seat with a gratified smile before turning his gaze towards her. "Want me to show you?"

Delicately settling her fork against the plate, Sansa eagerly nodded her head as she flashed a smile, any doubts that he may cut her curiosity off at a certain point having been eased away.

Without another word, Sandor led Sansa outside and across the yard to what she could only imagine was a garage of sorts. The metal structure was certainly large enough to accommodate three cars and possessed three garage doors arranged on the long side of the rectangular building. Sandor led the way to a smaller door on the shorter side of the garage and shoved a hand into his pocket to retrieve a key.

As he unlocked the door and pushed it open, Sansa could see nothing as darkness consumed the space until Sandor flicked on a series of over-hanging fluorescent lights. Confused at first, Sansa roved her eyes across the large, open area as she soaked in the bits and pieces she saw. The sum of all parts suddenly offered realization in her mind.

Turning towards Sandor, she breathlessly posed something between a stunned statement and a disbelieving question.

"You're a boxer?"

Nodding his head, Sandor let out a deep laugh as he crossed his arms about his chest and settled himself against the wall.

"What did you think was in here? My train sets?," he joked through a sarcastic smile.

Feeling a blush creep across her cheeks, Sansa laughed softly and abandoned his side to quietly tip-toe through the open space, her eyes silently scaling the walls before dropping to sparring mats on the floor. What was formerly a garage was been big enough to accommodate the dimensions of a boxing ring. Although the ropes where hung on the wall now, they could be easily pulled down and span the perimeter of the sparring mats to approximate a boxing ring.

Situated in the corner adjacent to the sparring mat was a squat rack, all the appropriate weights neatly organized on either side. Medicine balls were stacked in the opposite corner beneath jump ropes hung on the wall, dangling down in various lengths and thicknesses.

As Sandor remained perched against the wall with his arms across his chest, Sansa could feel him watching her; vigilantly observing her as she took in the features of the room and waiting patiently for her to say something. With her curiosity catching on her tongue, she finally spoke. Her eyes drifted from tape on the floor to meet Sandor's steadfast gaze.

"What's the tape for?," she asked gently. Her mind raced with questions, more than she could keep up with. Instead of blurting out a myriad of inquiries, Sansa settled on just one for now; a simple question in favor of more difficult ones.

"It's for foot work," Sandor replied as he pushed himself from the wall and paced over to Sansa's side, aligning his feet against the tape casually. "Being good on your feet is important in boxing and it's something I've never been fantastic at. So the tape helps gauge where my feet should be in different stances."

Giving a little smile and a tiny nod, Sansa lifted her eyes once more, contemplating a row of hanging punching bags all lined up near the opposite wall of the room. Following her eyes, Sandor pointed at each in turn.

"Speed bag. Heavy bag. Double end bag. They all have a purpose. I won't bore you with the details."

Sansa's eyes fluttered to him as his gaze roamed the room. While he had regarded the rest of his home with pride, Sansa could tell this space was the focal point of that pride; the zenith of his fondness. His house could get swept away in a landslide, but as long as this space remained, Sansa sensed he would count his blessings.

Settling her gaze ahead of her once more, Sansa eyed shelves of equipment- shoes, head guards, hand wraps, mouth guards, boxing gloves- until her eyes were pulled to the adjacent long wall of the room. In determined steps, she paced towards a small shelf of medals, trophies, and ribbons centered between two windows of the wall.

With careful strokes, Sansa ran her fingertips along the marble bases of trophies and satin smoothness of ribbons; the words similar, but no two achievements the same.  _Heavyweight. Champion. Golden Gloves. First place._ The words appeared everywhere; carved, printed, and cast before displayed amongst more of the same.

"You must be really good at it." Sansa smiled up towards Sandor who had fallen in next to her side and was eying the tokens of his accomplishments modestly, as if to play down their significance. It wasn't as if he wasn't proud, she knew, but the trophies and medals were just accessories, icing on the proverbially cake to the motivation and drive she sensed in him.

"It started out as street fighting really," Sandor began as he pushed his hands into his pockets. "When you're a hotheaded teenage kid with too much time on your hands, you'll find things to occupy yourself with. Fighting and drinking. That's what I did."

Silently, Sansa nodded her head as she shifted her stare towards Sandor, seeing him anew yet again. With each passing day, he had revealed another piece of himself and in doing so had come to replace her preconceived image of him. Slowly, the man he truly was and the man she thought him to be were becoming congruent in their likeliness. Pieces of the Hound were replaced with pieces of Sandor Clegane, the latter becoming more visible by the day.

"Alberto had suggested I get into boxing," Sandor continued. "It suited me, he said. At first, I didn't understand the point. There were too many rules; no hitting below the belt, no holding, tripping, kicking, head butting. I kept thinking to myself  _'what the fuck is the point then if I can't fight the way I want to?'_  After awhile, I got disciplined with it. I started training with this guy named Kieran. He was a former Irish brawler, grew up piss-poor in Belfast and eventually made it here to the States.

The first day I came in to train with him, Kieran looked at me and said 'I want you to hit me as hard as you can.'"

Finding herself still staring at Sandor, Sansa could see the intensity behind his eyes as he spoke. She imagined it was the same sort of intensity one might find in her whenever she danced or played music. She and Sandor had talked for hours about their likes and dislikes, exchanging stories from their pasts, some funny and some tragic. However, they had never discussed their respective passions, what they were driven to do at the end of the day.

"What'd you do?," Sansa questioned, finding herself thoroughly intrigued by this side of Sandor she had yet to see or perhaps had yet to take the time to notice.

"I fucking hit him as hard as I could and he took it," Sandor chuckled as he shook his head and let his lips remain creased in a smile. "It was like it was nothing to him. He told me to hit him again, so I did and this time I hit him harder. Still nothing. You see, he had trained to take hits. If an opponent is throwing everything they have behind their hits and you're not batting an eye at it, eventually you're either going to wear them down or intimidate them.

So that's how I trained. I'd come in, hit some shit, get hit, blow off steam, and leave bloodied, but feeling better so I'd come in the next day and do the same thing. Every day I did this. Eventually, I started to understand the techniques better, understood my strengths and style as a fighter and learned how to use that to my advantage."

As Sandor finished, he shifted his gaze towards Sansa, giving a bit of a double-take when he came to realize she had already been looking at him. There was once a time when he couldn't take his eyes off of her and Sansa felt a wave of heat hit her as she realized it was now her that was having a hard time not staring at him.

"And what style of fighter are you?," she queried, lowering her eyes politely as she ran her fingers once more over a trophy.

"A brawler, like Kieran. What I lack in speed, I make up for in strength," Sandor continued as he leaned his weight against the wall next to the shelf of medals and trophies as he studied Sansa's movements. "Brawlers have to be strong, have to be able to take repetitive hits until they can find an opening and strike. I may not land a lot of hits, but the hits I do land are packing some power."

With her fingertips tracing up and back down a trophy, Sansa subtly shifted her eyes towards Sandor though she did not meet his stare. Of course he would be a boxer, a fighter. Now that she was getting to know him, it made so much sense. He was strong, that was for sure, and she imagined he enjoyed the physicality it demanded, the intensity, the dedication.

"That one was for a style-match up," Sandor broke in as he motioned his head towards the trophy she had been touching. "I won by TKO."

Sansa felt a smile beam across her face, one she could not control even if she wanted to. A part of her was relieved that his life involved more than just the mafia, that there was more to him than racketeering, violence, extortion, and murder. Sansa settled her fingers on another trophy before lifting a wide-eyed gaze to Sandor.

"That was for the Las Vegas Golden Gloves Heavyweight championship. It's an amateur boxing tournament held all over the country. There are regional tournaments and then the national tournament," Sandor responded as he pushed himself from the wall and took a few paces before he settled once more next to her side.

Sansa's eyes roved over the collection of his achievements, searching out the most recent and finding it had come many years ago.

"The last one you won was in 2009," Sansa murmured quietly as she pointed to a medal hanging heavily from a thick red ribbon. Sandor seemed to tense up at her words and Sansa felt the heaviness of guilt beginning to set in at the thought that maybe she had hit a sore spot with him.

If she had, he did not let on, but instead silently scrutinized the medal through narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow. Watching him, Sansa sensed a turbulence beginning to boil up from within him, something that seemed to be accelerating as he stood quietly next to her.

"I've laid off it a bit," he began, his voice coming low, almost regretfully, and on a sighed exhale of breath. "There's too much other shit going on, but I still train. I try to every day, at least."

What he left unspoken, Sansa could not say, but she knew well enough to know when things went unsaid. Her father would often sit quietly at the dinner table after a long day at work, his eyes heavy and dark as his thoughts seemed to churn about his mind. Sansa and her mother knew when to let it be and leave well enough alone.

"You haven't trained since we've been here," Sansa mused softly. Although her eyes were lowered, she felt Sandor's arm snake around the small of her back, his fingertips lightly gripping her waist. Turning towards Sandor, Sansa yielded to his touch as he pulled her into him.

"I've been a bit distracted," he grumbled as his other hand came up to the side of her face and set about stroking her hair. Sansa felt her pulse beginning to quicken as her heart began beating faster in her chest, the tell-tale physiological response to his touch.

"I'm sorry," Sansa replied timidly as Sandor set in running the back of his fingers across her cheek. She felt her knees wobble ever so slightly and allowed her weight to push into him lest she go tumbling to the floor.

"No, you don't get to be sorry about that," Sandor groaned on a deep whisper before settling his lips against her mouth in a kiss, his tongue softly cajoling her lips to part for him. Wrapping her arms around his neck and lifting herself up on her tip-toes, Sansa complied to his demands, eager to surrender herself to his tantalizing nips and licks at her bottom lip. As the cadence of their kiss eventually slowed to a halt, Sansa's eyes fluttered open and a flush of warmth passed through her body, beckoning a blissful, contented smile.

"What?," Sandor prodded as he pulled back a bit to search her smiling face.

It was a simple question with an even simpler answer.  _He makes me happy._ Yet that was not the complete picture of this strange reality. In fact, somewhere along the way, realism had become convoluted into surrealism; the life-like depictions of her surroundings and situations had distorted to a fantastical and illogical representation of what they once were. It was as if Salvador Dali himself had painted her life with strokes of genius and a touch of madness. Muted colors and drab shades of reality had given way to the vividness of dreams and peculiarity of things that did not belong together.  _'Can this be real?,'_ she had wondered to herself countless times. A man that made so much sense in the reality of her heart yet her mind could not comprehend the world in which he made his existence; an existence built off of chaos, destruction, and so many strange and terrible things. She knew not how to reconcile the two, but found shelter in the knowledge that Sandor had carved out a niche of normalcy in the world that she sensed even he struggled to survive in.

Realizing he was awaiting an answer, Sansa let her eyes circumnavigate the room, exploring the details and discovering new ones with each pass.

"I don't know," she finally offered as response before motioning her head towards everything and nothing in particular. "This. You're always surprising me with things I don't expect."

It was as good of an answer as she could give in this moment because she herself was only just beginning to understand the stirring she felt when he was near. Sansa felt Sandor's chest expand against hers as he gave an amused laugh.

"You think I just spend all my time in fancy suits telling my men what to do, getting into shoot outs with bad guys, saving pretty girls like you?"

Clearly, that may have been the romanticized filter to the life that Sandor led, but even Sansa knew now that it was hardly the reality. Sandor certainly was no Lucky Luciano, no more than he was Laurence Olivier. Somewhere along the line Sansa had quit trying to apply a mold for Sandor to fit into; something from which she could draw comparison to make sense of him. Instead, she took him for who he was and more importantly saw him for who he was. She remained quiet as he took her hand and led her back towards the door.

"No, little bird. I like fighting and it just so happens that I'm good at it," Sandor added as he flicked off the lights and pulled the door closed behind them. "I imagine if the day comes I want out of Moriarti's whole deal, then I'd probably open my own boxing gym. Follow in the footsteps of guys like Kieran and teach other men how to fight."

A radiant smile swept across Sansa's face. With her eyes downturned, Sandor could not have seen and Sansa imagined she was grateful for that. She was off the hook, as it were, for having to explain her smile yet again. But what exactly might she say to him now? That the prospect of him leaving the mafia life overwhelmed her with joy? That she had built castles in her mind, a beautiful ending to a story with a tragic start and she couldn't envision it without him? No, he might think her naïve or he may even chide her for romanticizing things again. For now, that could be her secret; the place in her mind where she could retreat, if only for a little while.

"What about you? You're the song bird. A dancing songbird, if I remember correctly," Sandor broke in as they meandered casually across the expanse of the back yard with the sun cantering towards the western horizon.

"My mother played the piano, for as long as I can remember, and so I was constantly surrounded by music. I picked up on it at a young age. As far as dance goes, I started ballet when I was three. Since I was sixteen, my summer job was always as a dance instructor for a beginning ballet class at the dance studio down the street from my house. I never wanted to be a professional dancer, but I really liked the teaching aspect of it. No matter what I do, I think I'd like to work with children, teaching music or teaching dance. Maybe both."

As she finished, she found Sandor smiling at her as his eyes seemed to search her face as they so often did. He seemed to mirror her in this moment; both seeing one another in fresh light as they shared a bit more of themselves in turn. Now Sansa found it was she who was curious why he was smiling, what thoughts were going through his mind. Before she could work up the words to ask, they had reached the back door to the house and Sandor stopped with his hand resting on the doorknob.

"One day, I'll have a song from you," he said flatly, the smile retreating and a fervor of seriousness stirring in his steely eyes.

A song. It was a simple request, but it meant the world to her to hear him ask for it and it would mean the world to him for her to fulfill it. She could sing, that was true, but she often was too shy to sing for others. For him, though, she wished to share that part of herself along with all the other parts she kept locked away, lonely in the towers of her mind. Turning to him, Sansa placed a hand against his chest and sought out his eyes with a sincere stare.

"One day, yes," she intoned softly and truly. "I'd be happy to give you a song."

* * *

Pancakes had been a failure.

A complete fucking failure, but who was he kidding? Sandor could maneuver his way through shylocks and shakedowns. He could ice an empty suit and make a marriage in one fell swoop. But put Sandor in the kitchen and ask him to make pancakes, he would fall flat on his face. It hardly mattered though as Sansa swooped in to his rescue, their roles so oddly reversed or perhaps perfectly assumed.

Sweet as ever, she had reassured him, clearly appreciative of the effort he had put into it despite the outcome, before correcting all he had done wrong without once calling him out on it. No one could ever say that Sansa Stark wasn't polite. Where pancakes had been a disaster, their diversion to his boxing gym and subsequent conversation had been a quiet success. Slowly and over the past four days Sandor had unarmored himself in front of her; piece-by-piece, he gave up the ghost to step from the shadows and into the light. In doing so, he had revealed more of who he really was to himself than to her. He had learned he could be compassionate, he could be honest, he could momentarily be free from the shackles of a life that chose him more than he chose it.

Back inside, the darkness had crept through the living room, and with it a pleasant sense of calm, as Sansa fell to the couch with a contented sigh. Sandor followed suit and eased himself down next to her. With her head resting against the back of the couch and her eyes lifted to the ceiling, Sansa remained quiet as her countenance spoke to some sense of relief; relief at what he did not know. Sandor sat in stillness next to her, his arm pressed against hers in a tentative closeness.

"Mirabelle and Bronn are coming tomorrow," Sandor finally broke in. He had wanted it to be a surprise, but realized now that Sansa may appreciate forthrightness in lieu of any more surprises in her life. He seemed to have the right of it as her head turned and her eyes snapped towards him, her mouth curling upwards into a sweeping smile.

"They are?," she exclaimed nearly breathless as her eyes glistened wistfully.

Laughing as he nodded his head, Sandor reached his arm around her and settled it behind her shoulders. Sansa responded by pulling her legs up and tucking them next to her as she scooted towards him, bouncing ever so slightly with giddiness as she pressed herself against his side.

Sansa's face suddenly dropped as she stared wide-eyed at Sandor. Even in the faint darkness of the room, he could see the steady blush creeping across her cheeks.

"Bronn," she whispered on a tremulous breath. "Oh god. I haven't seen him since…well…you know." At that, Sansa let her eyes fall to her hands picking mindlessly of the hem of her dress.

Sandor had forgotten about that little incident, the scarlet letter of a bruise on Sansa's forehead having faded by now. Even if it hadn't faded, Sandor still didn't see much sense perseverating on Mirabelle's trysts with his underboss. That was a hop, skip, and a jump into the territory of "too much information" and still irritated him to no end besides.

With one arm still wrapped around Sansa's shoulder, Sandor brought his other hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"How do you think I feel? He's fucking my sister," he grumbled out on a deep sigh. At that, Sansa shifted away from him slightly and swiveled so that she was looking at him incredulously, the feigned offense written plain as day across her face.

"At least you didn't have to see it," she exclaimed as she pushed him lightly against the chest. Sandor snatched up her wrist as he pulled her back to him once more until she settled against him.

"Touché, little bird. Touché."

Grateful that the matter had finally been dropped, Sandor reached for the side table lamp and switched it on. The room suddenly felt warm with the dull glow of light and Sandor let out a deep sigh as he relaxed into the couch. He could feel Sansa tracing circles about his chest with her fingers. He knew well enough by now what that meant; it meant the girl was thinking about something and working up the nerve to ask him a question. When Sansa finally spoke, Sandor couldn't help the self-assured smile that broke across his lips.

"Are you upset that Bronn is with Mirabelle?," she asked. Sandor's cocksure confidence was dashed in no time as the conversation somehow circled back to his sister and Bronn's relationship or whatever the fuck it was between them. The question seemed inevitable; eventually he was going to be asked by the interested parties how he felt about their relationship. He supposed it was better to be asked by Sansa first.

Just because he had never gotten into long term relationships, that didn't mean Sandor had been blind to the attraction between Bronn and Mirabelle; the lingering looks, the excuses to be alone in one another's company, the sly comments made here and there from both parties. Sandor knew well enough what it all meant and he had warned Bronn to keep away from Mirabelle. The man could have any pick of women that came around, but not his baby sister. He had thought he made that clear, but Bronn was a grown man and Mirabelle, although he was loath to admit it, wasn't a baby anymore.

Sandor felt his jaw tighten the longer he thought about it and this ranked pretty damn high on the list of things he didn't really want to think about.

"Upset that they're together? Not really, no," he offered truthfully, the tension slightly releasing from his body as Sansa continued running circles up and down his chest. "Upset that they thought I was so fucking stupid I didn't know what was going on? Yeah. Bronn's a good guy though. Besides Alberto, I trust him more than anyone else. He would never intentionally hurt Mirabelle. I do know that."

Indeed, he did know that, but it made no difference in his mind. It was the unintentional hurts, the emotional shrapnel of being with a mafia man that bothered him; the potential that Mirabelle could end up collateral damage in Bronn's dealings as an underboss for the Moriarti family.

"But you still don't want him being with her," Sansa declared softly, reading between the lines as she so often did.

He supposed if he got down to brass tacks, then that was the natural conclusion to draw from it. In the back of his mind though, Sandor knew he'd be a hypocrite if he told either Bronn or Mirabelle that. He knew all too well the reservations some of his men had about Sansa being around and yet Bronn and Mirabelle never seemed to judge him. In fact, Mirabelle had taken it upon herself almost from day one to play matchmaker between him and Sansa.

"If they're both happy, then I guess I have to be okay with it," Sandor finally groaned out. "It just gets complicated. I never wanted Mirabelle to end up with a made man. I see what the wives of my men go through; having to constantly stand behind their man regardless of the shit that gets thrown at them. That includes infidelity, lying when the Feds come sniffing around, raising a family with the knowledge that they could be widowed at any given moment. Beyond that, families aren't immune to blow back. Wives and children are used as bargaining chips by rival families. I just don't want that for my sister. Bronn may be good to her, but life in the underworld makes no such guarantees. If anything, it promises to be hard in the best of times and tragic in the worst."

Slowly, Sansa sat up at that, her body rising away from him before resting against the back of the couch as she turned to face him. Her hands rested in her lap while her fingers worked against one another nervously.

"Is that why you don't get serious with women?," she murmured before snapping her stare up to him as a hand came to her mouth agape. "Oh god! I'm sorry. That came out wrong. It's just…Mirabelle told-"

Although Sandor understood she didn't mean it to be insulting, he still couldn't hide the agitation in his voice as he cut her off.

"I get it. Mirabelle and her big fucking mouth again."

Shaking his head and snorting out a bitter laugh, Sandor crossed his arms about his chest, wholly unsatisfied with the turn this conversation had taken. Sansa seemed to shrink away from him as her head dropped to her hands in her lap. He knew she regretted asking him and probably would have given anything for him to change the subject and forget about it.

But there was no going back on it now. The Pandora's box of mafia relationship logistics had been blown wide open.

"I never really came across any girls worth giving two fucks about," Sandor confessed as his tone of voice softened a bit. "The women I've been with I've usually mistreated in one way or another. It's not like I've meant to be an asshole. It just gets hard. I couldn't tell them the truth about everything. A lot of what I do I don't want to talk about. That amount of secrecy in a relationship is toxic. That's with the women I even bothered to  _try_ being with. Most of the time I didn't try. I'm not going to lie to you, Sansa. I'm not some fucking knight in shining armor. I hope you know that by now. You know what I am and what I do."

His admission seemed to sting her, he saw, as Sansa bit her lip and furrowed her brow. Her breaths were coming quicker too, the rise and fall of her chest exaggerated and rapid. Suddenly, her eyes, heavy with determination, flickered up towards his.

"But what you do isn't who you are," she protested adamantly as she set her eyes hard against his.

Once more, Sandor found himself simultaneously moved and irritated by the amount of faith she seemed to have in him. He wanted to earn her respect and admiration; not have it handed to him for some perceived qualities she thought he possessed.

"Don't start with that bullshit again. Making me out to be something I'm not." His words came harsher than intended, biting and cruel almost. Sandor could see the hurt in her eyes, the way any residual tenacity had given way to wounded defeat. Despite this, Sansa shook her head and although her eyes fell away from his, he could hear the resolve in her voice despite the quivering.

"No.  _You're_ the one that does that, not me. I see you." Lifting her eyes to him, Sandor saw a renewed sense of certainty rising within her once again as she emphasized her words. "I  _see_ you. Even if you can't see yourself."

Sandor was stunned into a sobering silence. His mouth hung open for he knew not how long until finally he realized and sealed his mouth into a tight-lipped scowl. Sansa had broken through the last bits of armor he had managed to maintain around her. Her perceptiveness sought to bring down every front and every wall he had put up. Panicked, Sandor held onto his pride and felt his eyes narrow at her.

"I see myself just fine. You want me?," he growled out before motioning towards the open area of the room with a sweeping gesture of his arm. "You want all this? I don't even think you know what that means for you. Fuck, I don't even know what that would look like."

Leaning forward, Sandor propped his elbows up on his knees and rested his forehead in the palms of his hands. Swiveling his head to the side, Sandor looked at her, watching her turn to stone beside him. It seemed he had broken through to her too, battering her resolve until he saw a single tear form in each eye and fall down her cheeks.

He felt guilty. He felt like a jackass. Here she was trying to convince him that he was a worthwhile human being and he was telling her about how he hadn't given shit about any other woman from his past.

Sitting up, Sandor shifted towards her until his knees were flush against the side of leg and his hand was resting on the back of the couch behind her head. Dipping his own head, Sandor leaned forward to catch her eyes in a steadfast stare.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Sansa! You have to know I give more than two fucks about you. A lot more. Tell me you know that by now."

Nodding her head somberly, Sansa blinked away the tears and finally met Sandor's intent stare as she gave a forlorn half smile. At that, Sandor came undone, abandoning every trace of irritation for favor of the affection he wanted for her.

"Then get over hear, girl, so I can prove it to you," he rasped with his own half smile as he wrapped his hand around her arm and pulled her closer to him. With a small gasp, Sansa obliged more out of being startled than anything. Wide-eyed, she looked up at him in a daze of confusion and lingering hurt.

Softening his approach, Sandor released his hand from around her arm and brought it up to cup her cheek. Matching his eyes to hers, he set about caressing her cheek with his thumb.

"I'm sorry. I don't want to hurt you." It was the truth and Sandor hoped she understood his sincerity. As he watched the confusion and pain slowly retreat from her eyes, Sandor realized that he too understood; understood that the pain he wished he could spare Mirabelle was the same pain he was going to try his damnedest to spare Sansa. He regarded her as his now and despite his inexperience at being with a woman for something other than sex, Sandor knew he had to figure out a way to shield her from the shit storm that so often was his life.

Nodding her head in recognition of his words, Sansa moved towards him and brushed her lips against his in a soft kiss. Sandor wrapped his arm around the small of her back and pulled her onto his lap, closing the miniscule distance between their lips before deepening the kiss with a groan; his tongue gliding against the fullness of her bottom lip before slowly easing into her mouth. He relished the warmth of her kiss; the gentle flicker of her tongue he would feel against his bottom lip as he established the pace of yearning and desire. Sansa whimpered in complaint as he pulled away ever so slightly, his lips softly teasing her as they brushed against hers.

He could tell she felt exposed; the skirt of her dress had ridden half way up her thighs as her legs wantonly straddled his hips. Her cheeks seemed to burn red as she let her eyes fall to her hands which were pressed firmly against his chest. Sandor lifted one of his hands to rest at the back of her neck, his fingers interlacing with strands of her hair. His other hand smoothed down her back, stopping where her spine naturally curved into the small divot of space right above her bottom.

Slowly, Sansa's eyes roamed up his form until she met his stare. Undoubtedly, his eyes were dark and lustrous, and he could almost see her squirm internally both from embarrassment at her precarious position as well as her own want and desire.

Sandor leaned his weight into her as he bent forward, his eyes still glued to hers and silently willing her to keep his stare. Unwilling to defy him in this, Sansa kept her eyes to his as he shifted himself towards the length of the couch and laid her down onto the cushions.

With his hands behind her knees, Sandor propped Sansa's legs up until the sides of her thighs were pressed against either side of him, straddling him as he settled in the space between her legs.

By now, the skirt of her dress had fallen against her hips and Sansa let out a tiny whimper in protest. He expected her to reach her hands up and pull her skirt down. Or maybe even to sit back up and demurely place a kiss on his lips, quietly setting the pace he would undoubtedly follow. Instead, Sansa's body become rigid, her hands pressed against the couch cushions and her eyes widening with each quickened breath. Sandor's lips curled in a half smile as his eyes roamed over the sight of her. Her lips were moist from kissing and slightly parted, her skin was flushed and radiating a subtle sort of glow, her hair fanned out into a bed a waves underneath her.

Slowly and with his palms pressed against the front of her knees, Sandor moved his hands slowly down the front of her legs until they reached her hips. Sansa let a tiny gasp escape her lips and Sandor could see that her chest was heaving now, the curve of her cleavage steadily rising and falling with each breath. Try as he might, he couldn't suppressed the guttural groan that resonated from the back of his throat.

Sandor settled back a bit on his knees as he admired her body; her legs slender, shapely, and long, her waist small as it curved into her hips, her breasts firm and spilling out from the top of her dress. His thoughts meandered greedily to places they probably shouldn't have in that moment. He wondered if he turned her on, if he slipped his fingers beneath her panties and stroked between her folds how wet she'd be for him. Or if he pulled her dress off and took right here, what sorts of moans she would make and all the ways her gorgeous face would contort in pleasure as he slowly slid his hard cock in and out of the hot wetness between her legs.

Grumbling out yet another deep groan, Sandor's desire for her had reached a fever pitch and he couldn't stop his hand from moving over her hips, gripping his fingers there as he leaned forward towards her.

As his weight pressed against her chest, Sandor moved his lips up her neck, his tongue lingering against her skin in spots he knew would elicit unbidden moans. With his lips and tongue working against the soft spot of skin right where her jaw line met her neck, Sansa arched her body into him as she let out a delicate, whimpering moan.

Instantaneously, Sandor's grip tightened on her hips and his mouth moved with a fervor up towards her lips. Sansa had hardly enough time to part her lips at his urging before his tongue was already seeking out hers, his hands just as eager as they roamed up her sides. Reaching the sides of her breasts, Sandor's hands eagerly sought out the fullness until his fingers hooked underneath the fabric of her dress and bra, the front of his fingers flush against the bareness of her breasts. With a yearning grunt, Sandor deepened the kiss even more as he eased his hips into her, rocking the stiffness of his cock up against her in slow, rolling motions.

Squealing into the kiss, Sansa squirmed underneath him, wiggling and writhing until he stopped his movements. Almost immediately, Sandor went still on top of her, his head falling against her neck, his fingers unhooking from her dress. With their chests heaving against one another, Sandor let out a deep, almost indiscernible muttering of words with each exhaled rasp of his breath.  _'Okay, okay, okay,'_ he breathed into her neck, his mantra interjected here and there with a frustrated laugh. It was his effort to try and settle the heat that was coursing through them both, but mostly him. Pulling away with almost a pained expression, Sandor sat up and squeezed his eyes shut, running his hands over his face slowly as he exhaled a deep breath.

He felt like a fucking teenager again, hardly able to contain himself with her. Each time she would squirm underneath him, give a tiny little squeal or some other indication that things had gone too far, Sandor was finding it harder to pull away from her, to stop his hands in their tracks, and calm himself down. He wanted her and her shyness and inexperience perpetuated that want, slowly sparking it's evolution into a screaming need. However, he wanted and needed her to trust him. That need and want managed to trump the need growing in his pants and had ultimately been the force which pulled him away from her.

Opening his eyes again, Sandor looked at Sansa who was still laying against the couch cushion, panting her breaths as she stared up at him. Extending a hand to her, Sandor pulled her up until she was sitting on the edge of the couch, her legs now pressed to together as she stared at her hands folded in her lap.

Lifting her eyes ever so slightly, Sansa eyed Sandor's cock pressing hard against the front of his pants before letting her eyes flutter away.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, unable to let her eyes meet his.

Sandor knew she felt guilty. He knew she felt as though she had left him frustrated and wanting more. True, his balls were aching slightly with the subtle reminder he needed release and it was also true that he wanted her something fierce. But Sandor also knew that she was well worth the wait and found he didn't really mind taking his time exploring her body.

Sliding from the couch, Sandor crouched in front of her and pressed his palms against the couch cushions on either side of her hips.

"Hey," Sandor soothed as he looked up at her until she finally met his eyes. "No apologizing. Now what's going on in that pretty head of yours?"

Sansa let go of a breath, one she had apparently been holding. Burying her face in her hands, Sansa shook her head.

"I don't know," she sighed in exasperation before stumbling through her next words. "I just…I don't want you to get frustrated with me because I haven't…"

Sansa let her voice fall off as she stammered, her words reaching Sandor's ears muffled and unsure. Pulling her hands away from her face and interlacing them in his, Sandor sought out her eyes, but found she would not meet his stare.

"Look at me," he urged with a deep rasp until Sansa tentatively lifted her eyes to his. "I want you, Sansa. That's no secret. But I want  _all_ of you, not just your body. I want your trust and I want you to get to know me better before we get too physical. And I want to get to know you better too. There's no rush to do anything if you don't want to."

He hoped she understood his sincerity; that if she could really see him, as she said she could, that she would see that he meant every word of what he said. Sansa silently nodded her head in agreement and Sandor could feel her hands shaking in his, her lips trembling as she stared doe-eyed at him.

"I haven't…I've never had sex before," she whispered in her own offering of truth. Sandor smiled reassuringly before exhaling a small laugh.

"I sort of figured that," he responded through a smile. Although Sansa viewed her own innocence as a deficiency, he found her innocence to be both enticing and endearing.

"Is it that obvious?," she replied with an exasperated exhale of breath before chewing on her bottom lip.

Squeezing her hands, Sandor shook his head before lifting himself back up on the couch and next to her side.

"No. Not like that," he assured, his voice deep as he ran his fingers through her hair and down her back. "You act like it's a bad thing. It's not. I told you before that we won't do anything until you want to. You set the pace and I'll follow."

Earnestly he stared at her until she responded with a smile; not a polite smile she gave sometimes when she felt it was expected of her, but a smile of genuine contentment accompanied with a nod of her head. Trust is a fickle thing, Sandor knew; it takes ages to earn and mere seconds to destroy. Although they hadn't had ages together, he finally felt like he was slowly earning her trust and that was something he refused to annihilate just for a moment's pleasure.

As Sandor lay back on the couch, Sansa assumed her place by his side. She tucked her face close to his chest as he settled his arm over the curve of her waist. Reaching for the remote, Sandor flicked on the T.V., more for background noise than anything. His thoughts were enough to preoccupy him for now. Time seemed to pass and the night grew dark. Eventually the rhythm of Sansa's breath slowed to soft cadence of slumber.

He watched her sleep now. Observed the sanctuary of serenity she seemed to find in sleep. He counted the seconds between the rise and fall of her chest and studied the sensuous curve of her parted lips, the delicate slope of her up-turned nose, the darkened length of her thick eyelashes. Lifting his hand, Sandor ran the back of his fingers up and down her arm, tracing the length with a soft touch and watched the ripple of goose bumps rise from her skin illuminated in blues and golds by the faint flicker of the television.

His existence was in a state of flux. The external chaos had receded to a sort of internal pandemonium and Sandor didn't know which was worse. He could fight off men, take them down in a barrage of bullets and blood, but he couldn't stave off the relentlessness of fear.

No matter how he figured, Sandor could see no outcome where he got to keep her. He had been through it over and over in his mind; his thoughts a labyrinth of dead ends and broken dreams. Best case scenario, he might be able to return her to her father once the threats against her had been eliminated. Polite as ever, Sansa would probably thank him for his kindness, kiss him on the cheek, and then get on with her life. In the days spent upstairs in his office, Sandor had mulled it over, considered the option and sought out every last flaw. Her father was still in hiding and could be anywhere, dead even. Sansa couldn't go home yet and even when she could, would she have a home and family to get back to?

Those flaws were pale in comparison to the singular reason Sandor had eventually dismissed the idea of trying to get her back home. His own selfish desires were a jagged pill to swallow and an uncomfortable admission that he'd forsake her wants for his own need to possess her, wholly and completely. That internal confession of truth had been like holding a mirror to the darkest parts of his heart. She was his now and he struggled to understand the weakness he felt in the face of letting her go.

But to keep her meant to keep her safe and Sandor understood the dangerous shortcomings of his ability to even do that. Gregor was alive and well somewhere, licking his wounds and masterminding retaliation. The longer Gregor kept quiet, the more Sandor had to fear. A spat between brothers was coming to a head and the writing on the wall was now a neon sign that spelled out death and destruction. Sansa was merely the fire starter to the war coming. Neither he nor his brother would lie low forever, slinking away from their familial destiny and birthright to destroy one another.

The worst case scenario had already played out almost to completion; the last act having yet to be played and this downtime merely an intermission. But then that was what his nightmares were for; the stage for all the  _'what ifs'_  and  _'what could have happened'_ to play out as Act II behind his eyes and taunt him as he slept.

And taunt him they did until he awoke in a cold sweat and gasped for breaths. Each night Sansa would drift asleep wrapped in his arms and each night Sandor would wake just once, always just once, from these nightmares. Wide awake and reeling, he would cast his petrified stare to the beautiful creature still tucked in his arms. Although he fancied himself an atheist, he would thank every fucking God known to man that she was there with him, that she hadn't left by force or free will. He did not stir next to her and he doubted she knew he was awake, but with fear still running through his veins, Sandor would turn to her. He would watch as she slept; count her breaths to calm the worries that besieged his mind and recant all they had done that day, every normal little thing, just to distract him from his thoughts. Sandor's arm would squeeze around her tighter then as he would pull her closer, deciding to seek his own sanctuary in her; each calm breath, every soft smile, and all those sweet words and even sweeter lips.

Now as Sandor pulled Sansa closer to him, he pressed his lips to her forehead before letting his eyes close. He knew now to hold her, not just because he wanted to. He knew to hold on like hell to her because this very well may be the calm before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, for the love and support. Below are songs for this chapter, answers to questions that I've been getting quite a bit, and definitions of mafia terms used up to this point. Nothing imperative to read, but there in case you want it.
> 
> 1.) "You are mine" Mute Math
> 
> 2.) "Falling Hard" Meiko and Crystal Method
> 
>  
> 
> There are a few questions I get asked that bring up good points and I feel can be addressed now:
> 
> Where are the other Stark children?
> 
> Sansa is an only child in this fic. She will reveal that at some point, but the logistics of the story were such that I wanted and needed her to be an only child. Pulling in too many extraneous characters can detract from the plot a bit so I decided to forgo the rest of the Stark clan. More importantly though, I wanted her home life to have a certain "feel" to it. Being an only child, she's the center of her parent's universe and they are the center of hers. That makes the sting of losing her mother and being away from her father that much harder to manage.
> 
> How bad are Sandor's scars?
> 
> A few of you have noticed Sansa does not seem to be put off or even think about Sandor's scars that much in this fic. His scars are much less severe in this story than in canon. There is no missing ear, no exposed bone, no weeping wounds, no blackened flesh. I attribute this to the difference between modern medicine and the treatments in Westeros. Skin grafts vs. Maester's ointments...
> 
> At what point in canon is Sandor in this fic?
> 
> Sandor in this story is essentially the equivalent of a Quiet Isle Sandor. You'll see flickers of the Hound (his possessiveness and temper), but he's not a raging ball of angst and anger. He's more collected and in control of himself now.
> 
>  
> 
> There are two websites I've come across that are fantastically thorough with mafia slang. Instead of sending you on wild goose chase I'll define mafia terms as they show up. If you're interested in those websites, let me know and I can send you the links:
> 
> Note: The Moriarti family is modeled after an Italian-American mafia family for the most part. Their rituals and traditions are modeled after the Sicilian mafia.
> 
> Made man: A man who has been initiated into a mafia family
> 
> Making bones: An initiation ritual that involves murdering someone, often an enemy of the family
> 
> Cosa Nostra: Translated means "this thing of ours." It's how a mafia family often refers to themselves.
> 
> RICO: Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organization act was legislation passed in the US in the 1970's which has been essential in taking down organized crime syndicates such as mafia families. Before RICO, it was often difficult to prove guilt and prosecute higher-ups in the mafia hierarchy since many bosses don't actually carry out crimes themselves, but rather give the order.
> 
> Omerta: The vow of silence that is taken when a man is made. Women often are implicitly held to the vow of Omerta as well. Essentially, no matter what happens, you never talk and you are expected to take the secrets of the family to the grave. Breaking the vow of Omerta is a death sentence.
> 
> Underboss: The man directly underneath the boss in the chain of command.
> 
>  
> 
> Lucky Luciano: Not a mafia term, but he was the first boss of the Genovese family. Noted also for starting The Commission, which is the governing body of the American mafia.
> 
>  
> 
> Shylock: Loan-sharking
> 
> Shakedown: Typically a scare tactic used with local merchants of mafia-influenced neighborhoods to get said merchants to cooperate. Can be used to describe blackmail and extortion in general.
> 
> Ice: To murder
> 
> Empty suits: Wanna-be made men. Guys who just hang around the family, but really don't have anything to offer or are hesitant to actually be a part of it for real. I would imagine they probably pose a risk to Omerta (that's just me guessing).
> 
> Make a marriage: Bringing two made men together for business; sitting down to do business
> 
> Underworld: Another way the mafia refers to itself.


	9. Chapter 9

 

**Gods and Monsters**

Chapter 9

* * *

Funny how a place seems to take on a life of its own; it's thrumming heartbeat the collective consciousness of those who have gone before and those who have yet to come, it's pulse the mundane goings-on which soak into the very pores of the earth. To Mirabelle, California had always held a sense of broken-hearted enchantment for her. From its early days when those seeking to manifest their destinies in gold braved the unknown wilds of the west to now where listless dreamers found their way here to fulfill the whimsies of film, dance, and song with hearts that had long been broken before crossing the Sierra Nevada. It is the land of shattered dreams and lost souls. Yet people still came with hope in their hearts and stars in their eyes to find what they were looking for in the Golden state. Mirabelle hoped Sandor had found what he was looking for here, whatever that may be; perhaps the solace he had sought for so long or maybe the protection he wished to offer a girl who had entered his life like the gust of a storm.

All of yesterday, they had zig-zagged through the state of California; up a mountain pass, down through the matching valley, and through all those sleepy little towns nestled in between. Up and down, back and forth, Bronn had led the convoy of cars, soldiers marching on well into the night. Half had split up at the Nevada border for the dual purpose of both anonymity as well as some sort of business which was to take place up in Reno. She knew to not ask questions. That was something she had learned early on. Some women in the family- be they wives, sisters, girlfriends, mistresses- knew everything and some knew nothing. To each their own, but it was Mirabelle's preference not to know. Knowledge may be power in "normal" life, but in the Underworld it seemed to cause more harm than good. As half the convoy soldiered on towards their "business," Mirabelle remained quiet and simply watched until the red orbs of their tail lights disappeared down the adjacent highway of desert twilight. She had said a prayer for the men and then let it go, returning to her crossword puzzle to stare blankly at that pesky 39 across.

Although a mere three hours from their destination, they had stopped outside of Redding to rest for the night. Bronn had wanted to keep going, insisting that he was more than up to the challenge of driving in one straight shot. After all, her brother and Sansa had done it so he could do it too, he had declared. From the passenger's seat, she had seen his head bobbing and knew he was a hop, skip, and a jump away from falling asleep at the wheel. As he defiantly argued with her in the hotel parking lot, Mirabelle had rolled her eyes and sauntered off, leaving him in the car while she checked them in for the evening.  _Men and their egos._

Mirabelle had made it up to Bronn though. She had soothed his wounded pride with cooing words and gentle touches. He made love to her, unhurried and with the confident receptiveness of a man 15 years her senior. She could watch him as he listened for each gasp and recited all the movements he had committed to memory, movements which left her adrift in waves of pleasure. She could trace the vision of him in her own mind; the image of a man who had bared his tattered soul to her and in turn she had showed him the scars of her own vulnerabilities. They were bound by all they had shared and the intimacy reverberated in the way he touched her, held her, kissed her, and loved her. Mirabelle had awoken a few days before to find she may very well have fallen in love with him too.

Now as they stopped at some rinky-dink gas station to fill up one last time, Mirabelle dreamily lifted her eyes to the sky and squinted against the light filtering through her heart-shaped sunglasses. Crows circled above, their wings appearing glossy in the glaring sunlight as they every now and again gave a shrill squawk to one another. What they could possibly have to say, she did not know.

"Ugly fucking things," Zulu grumbled as he leaned up against the side of the car next to her. With a half-smile and a shake of the head, Mirabelle glanced towards the young man who so eerily resembled a young Iggy Pop in all his wide-eyed, emaciated eccentricity.

"And what exactly do you have against a murder of crows?," Mirabelle shot back as she pulled the cigarette that was resting between his lips and took a long drag. She hadn't smoked a cigarette since her days of bar hopping with Arianne. Even then, it was a social thing, more for appearances than anything else. Still, the smell of cigarette smoke held for her girlish memories of drunken laughter, table dancing, making out with men whose names she almost never remembered the next day, and all that frivolous freedom that seemed to have floated away when she wasn't looking.

Shrugging his shoulders, Zulu shoved his hands into the pockets of his black jeans and stared down at his Doc Martens kicking around dirt in the parking lot.

"Technically, they're ravens.  _Corvus corax_. They're in Mexico too. I remember my Ma going after them with a broom whenever they'd congregate in our yard."

Mirabelle exhaled a laugh on a puff of smoke before handing the red lipstick-stained cigarette back to Zulu, her head already flushed with an emerging buzz.

"For as smart as you are, what are you doing with the likes of the Moriarti? Shouldn't you be in college or something?"

Zulu stiffened at that, sucking in a deep breath and straightening his spine until he stood to his full height. Cocking her head to the side and lowering her sunglasses to the bridge of her nose, Mirabelle looked at him. A sincere look, one to emphasize her inquiries were no jest, but rather were made in all seriousness.

"You need money to go to college," he replied quietly as he settled against the car once more. "I don't have money. No more than I have a family that gives a fuck what happens to me either way. College or no college."

If Zulu was jaded, Mirabelle couldn't rightly tell. Not by his words, at least. His words were matter-of-fact, spoken as if he had said them a hundred thousand times before, as if he had purposely repeated them until they no longer held a sting. Something behind his eyes betrayed him though and Mirabelle knew Zulu, like so many who had wondered into California before him, was truly a lost soul.

Letting her eyes fall away from him, Mirabelle pushed her sunglasses back up her nose and found it was now her mindlessly kicking dirt around with her feet. She knew bits and pieces of Zulu's past; an incomplete story, yes, but enough for her to decipher the heartache and understand it had been less than ideal. A dead mother and a dead-beat father. That was Zulu's past and it was one she knew he wished not to speak of at any great length. Once more, Mirabelle knew well enough to not ask questions.

Moments passed where neither Mirabelle nor Zulu said anything, but rather settled into an uncomfortable silence until the sound of whistling punctuated the quiet of restless and hesitant minds. Shifting her gaze towards the doors of the gas station mini-mart, she could see Bronn cantering across the parking lot towards them, an iced tea in one hand and a box of cigarettes in the other. From behind her, a chorus of squalling all but dampened the sound of Bronn's whistling as the ravens fled from the trees and power lines to seek refuge elsewhere.

"For my lady," Bronn warbled as he handed the can of iced tea to Mirabelle with a sarcastic little bow before standing to his full height and tossing the box of cigarettes at Zulu. "And for you, kid."

Scampering forward, Zulu caught the pack of cigarettes as they tumbled towards the ground, but not before stumbling over his own two feet and falling to his knees in the dust. Bronn tossed his head back and let out a hearty laugh at the spectacle unfolding before him.

"Good thing we keep you in front of a computer, Zulu," Bronn bantered as he opened the driver's side door to the car.

Zulu seemed to bristle at that, clearly embarrassed either by the display of his gracelessness or perhaps the prospect of being the only made man who didn't get sent on assignments in the "field," as they called it. Dejected and with his head hung down, Zulu paced back towards his own vehicle and slipped into the passenger seat, content to let Thomas continue to drive.

Mirabelle slid into the car and shot Bronn a chiding glare as she popped open her iced tea and snatched up the half-finished crossword puzzle perpetually stuck on 39 across.

"You know, you could be a  _little_ less of a prick to him sometimes," she grumbled whilst slipping out of her black ballet flats and pulling her legs up onto the seat.

"I'm just toughening the boy up is all," Bronn declared as he reached over and patted her on her bare thigh right below the hem of her shorts. "Better me than Sandor, eh? At least I'm not such a hard ass about shit."

Choosing to ignore him for now, Mirabelle steadied her gaze to the road ahead of them. Sometimes she wondered if the men of the family understood what it was like to be an outsider thrown into the mix, left to sink or swim. She imagined they didn't as many of them grew up in the Mafia life. They were sons and grandsons of original members, their piece of the legacy already established and set by the blood that coursed through their veins. It hadn't taken Sandor long to prove himself to Alberto. Full of rage and a hungry drive for vengeance, Sandor quickly became a valued member, having proved himself time and time again on the streets and with his contracts. He was a made man in no time, much to the chagrin of some of the men who valued Italian blood more than essential skills. Clegane certainly wasn't an Italian name yet Alberto called the shots and made it clear that Sandor and Mirabelle too were as good as gold as far as he was concerned.

Still, Mirabelle dealt with her share of bullshit; petty hierarchal drama that the women seemed to occupy themselves with. If the men were exclusive, the women were worse. Mirabelle had been young then and had taken their iciness to heart. Perhaps that was why she felt a compelling need to shield Sansa, to make her feel safe and welcomed, to perhaps heal her own bruised heart by nurturing the girl. Much like herself, Sansa had suffered tragedy and had come to the family during a tumultuous time in her life. While Mirabelle felt the same sense of protectiveness now with Zulu, it wasn't her place to interfere with the boy's hazing into the ranks. Like all others before him, the kid would have to prove himself and then some. All she could do was urge Bronn to perhaps show the kid just a little compassion although she doubted her urging would make any difference.

An hour went by in dreamy silence; Mirabelle staring out the window as she clutched her crossword puzzle in her lap and Bronn listening to a baseball game, cursing out loud at every walk, strike, and foul.

As the game went into the seventh inning stretch, Bronn abruptly flicked off the radio and swiveled a devious stare towards Mirabelle. She knew that look and it meant he was up to no good.

"Alright. How much do you want to bet that they're fucking?"

Suddenly roused from her highway hypnosis, Mirabelle furrowed her eyebrows at him and blurted out the obvious question in her mind.

"Who's fucking?," she queried although as soon as the words left her lips she knew exactly who he was talking about.

"Your brother and Sansa. Come on, doll. Ante up. What do you think?"

Bronn's lips pulled into a sweeping grin, his eyes glistening with merriment as if he had been waiting for this to come up in conversation. For as hard of a man Bronn fancied himself to be, he sure loved to gossip.

"They're not fucking. End of story." At that, Mirabelle tossed the crossword puzzle into her purse and crossed her arms about her chest.

With her curtness of response and defensiveness of body language spurring him on, Bronn pressed further, clearly unwilling to let the topic go; the topic she could tell he had been dying to talk about for god-only-knows how long.

"Why not?," he exclaimed as his mouth went agape. "Have you seen the way he looks at her and just recently the way she looks at him?"

Mirabelle turned to look at him once more and couldn't help, but let a tiny giggle escape her lips. The dichotomy of some men in the family never ceased to amaze her; Sandor with his raging temper and icy brusqueness agonizing over how to talk to an 18 year old girl. And now Bronn, the foul-mouthed hot shot who fearlessly maneuvered his way in and out of some of the most dangerous situations the men had been in, who was about to bubble over with excitement as he speculated just what exactly Sansa and Sandor had been up to this past week.

Relenting, Mirabelle couldn't imagine denying her man this small bit of joy; the joy of gossiping like a little girl.

"I have seen the way they look at each other," she began matter-of-factly as she calmly stated her case. "And that's precisely why I don't think he's sleeping with her. I think there's something more than just a physical attraction going on there. A lot more, actually."

Mirabelle's last words seemed to trail off as if the truth of them had just struck her, a subconscious awakening of sorts where if her eyes hadn't seen she would not have believed. She had seen it though, first from her brother and then from Sansa.

"And that's why I think he  _is_  fucking her," Bronn cried out as he punctuated each word with a pounding of his fist on the steering wheel.

"Just picture this," he continued, a bit calmer now and sweeping his hand through the air with a dreamy gaze. "Alone in a house, desolate beach front property, sunsets, no one there to bother you or walk in on you in the middle of the act. He's had five days to put the moves on her."

Mirabelle felt a laugh erupt from her lips as she almost spit out a sip of her iced tea. Shifting in her seat so that she was now facing Bronn, Mirabelle set an intent stare on him.

"Wait a minute. We are talking about the same guy, right? My brother may have been around the block a few times, but he's by no means some sort of Casanova. I'm not sure he even has ' _moves.'_ "

"Hmm. That's true," Bronn responded as he cupped his chin thoughtfully. "He is a sort of 'hit it and quit it' kind of guy, except a lot angrier about it. I mean it's like he fucks because it's some sort of duty to his dick, but the whole logistics of getting a girl into bed seem to annoy him more than anything."

Shaking her head frantically, Mirabelle squeezed her eyes shut and waved her hands in the air.

"Oh my god. Babe, can we please,  _please_ stop talking about this?," she pleaded as she tried to erase the fleeting image of her brother's sex life out of her head. She would indulge Bronn's peculiar affection for gossip only so far.

"All I'm saying is that I doubt the girl is going to dodge your brother's advances, assuming he's made any." Bronn smiled at her, a soft smile with the whimsy of nostalgia rippling across his face. "Not like you. I about damn near had to corral you, girl."

Mirabelle felt the heat hit her cheeks in a girlish blush. It was true. She had dodged Bronn's advances initially, more out of principle than anything else. Bronn was her brother's underboss and she knew all too well how Sandor felt about her ending up with a made man. She had heard the lectures, had obliged him in his tirades as he would pace furiously about the room and go off on some tangent about a perceived tryst between her and one of his men. Even before he assumed the role as boss of the Moriarti family, Mirabelle was branded 'off limits' by Sandor's searing glares and tight-lipped scowls given to any made man that looked her way more than once.

When Bronn had started in with the looks, the sly advances, the insatiably flirtatious quips, Mirabelle had brushed him off, thinking he was either bat-shit crazy for being so brazen or just fucking with her. Neither had been the case as he approached her one night and dropped the act. Instead of some saucy one-liner laden with sexual innuendos, Bronn had laid it all out on the table. He wanted to get to know her, wanted to see what she was all about, and wanted her to give him a chance despite the fact that her brother would flip if he found out. Mirabelle had been touched and so she agreed.

Initially, she hadn't found Bronn to be a particularly attractive man. Mostly, she had been nit-picky and had searched for reasons to brush him off. Being nearly six feet tall herself, she liked men that were tall, much taller than her. In heels, she would tower over Bronn, or so she had argued with herself. His hair curled in thinned chestnut waves to his shoulders and somehow she had convinced herself she didn't like that. His facial hair, although neatly trimmed, had turned her off, or so she decided. Standing before her mirror and curling her hair with a curling iron, Mirabelle had enumerated the many things she found distasteful about the man; his jokes were crude, his nose looked as though someone had flat ironed it, his hair line was receding, his face had begun to wrinkle with age. And there was that too; he was 15 years older than her. What could she possibly have in common with a 42 year old man, she had asked herself. With each release of her curling iron, Mirabelle had seemed to find another fault in Bronn until her head was filled with curls as well as reasons to call off their date. She hadn't the nerve though so she snatched up her purse and told herself she might as well get it over with.

He hadn't told her what they would be doing on their date and she had fully expected him to plan something cheesy; something done to death like dinner at a lousy restaurant followed by an awful action movie. What she hadn't expected though was the thoughtfulness of the evening he had planned. He had taken her to a quaint little art gallery that doubled as a wine shop. Mirabelle hadn't known if it had been mere coincidence or not, but Bronn had managed to create a date which married two of her interests together-art and wine.

They had sipped on glasses of Chablis and perused the colorful rows showcasing the local art scene while shyly engaging one another in conversation. Much to her surprise, Mirabelle had been more enchanted by her banter with Bronn than the abstract paintings hung against the stark white walls. He had asked her questions about herself, not to pry or because he thought it was expected of him, but more out genuine interest. They had left after Bronn bought a bottle of Malbec; her favorite type of wine and one that he had mused would go well with the dinner he had planned on making for them.

Back at his place, he cooked for her, something no man had ever done for her before and consequently something he was apparently rather good at. Mirabelle watched transfixed as he chopped through vegetables and listened as he began working through the details of his own past, starting with his childhood and ending with only select and vaguely described details of his time deployed overseas during the first Gulf War. His life had been replete with adventure, travelling, and wanderlust. Yet he hardly mentioned family, friends, or lovers. Mirabelle had seen a sort of loneliness in him then and was mortified at herself for having only hours before entertained the thought of cancelling on him.

Somewhere along the line his nose had become cute, his jokes funny, the lines on his face tasteful, his hair line handsome, his height not such a big deal, and their age difference hardly noticeable. If anything, he had awoken some Lolita complex she hadn't even known she possessed in the first place. She had the heart-shaped sunglasses. Now all she needed was a lollipop pressed between her lips and she'd be set.

One-by-one, Mirabelle had undone all the criticisms she had been so quick to itemize in her head until she found herself inexplicably and completely head-over-heels for the man she had almost written off entirely.

A smile must have graced her lips because Bronn broke her reverie as he found her hand with his and gave a gentle squeeze.

"We're almost there, love," he softly assured although that was hardly the thing on her mind.

At some point, Thomas and Zulu, along with the rest of the men, had headed in separate directions. For the first time in as long as she could remember, Mirabelle and Bronn were alone together;  _truly_ alone because being alone in a room together inside of a house full of people did not count in her book. What little was left of the trip Mirabelle and Bronn spent reveling in how pleasant it was just to have this little sliver of time together, fleeting as it may be. She wondered then if this is what it must be like to carry out a relationship in a "normal" life.

While she had no delusions that her life was by any means special, Mirabelle understood what being a sister of a Mafia boss and girlfriend of an underboss meant for her and nothing about it was normal by any measure of the imagination. Perhaps that was why Sandor had been so adamant about her trying to separate herself as much as possible from the Underworld, but that was so much easier said than done and if anyone should know that, it should be him.  _The heart wants what it wants,_ her mother used to say. And her heart wanted what she had now; quiet moments with a man who made her feel as though she were the only woman in the world that mattered.

After what felt like an eternity, the road began to fork in the familiar way which let her know that they were quickly nearing their destination. Mirabelle shifted forward in her seat and began to slip into her ballet flats. Bronn navigated the turns as she flipped open her compact and smoothed out the make-up under her eyes before powdering her nose.

As they finally pulled up to her brother's house, Mirabelle settled back in her seat and felt a contented grin pull at the corners of her lips. She had forgotten just how very  _Sandor_ this house was. It seemed to mirror him in so many ways and with that thought she seemed to realize how much she had missed her brother and Sansa too.

Mirabelle unloaded bags of groceries from the car and looped them carefully on her arms. She had had the foresight to assume that her brother hadn't done any serious grocery shopping since coming here. She shuddered at the thought of what he might be feeding Sansa and so she had decided, like all good sisters, to take it upon herself to stock his refrigerator with  _real_ food, not the crap that passed for guy food.

With their weekend bags thrown over his shoulder, Bronn met Mirabelle around the front of the car and led the way towards the front door, giving it a few hard knocks when they reached it. Long moments passed before Mirabelle heard stirring from inside.

When the door finally opened, Mirabelle had to do a double take. The red-headed beauty standing in front of her couldn't possibly be the same girl that had left with her brother a week ago. Sansa smiled sweetly as she let them through and unburdened Mirabelle by taking a few of the grocery bags. The baby blue sundress Sansa wore fell to mid-thigh which with her nude colored pumps created the illusion that she had legs for days. She wore her hair down and had let it curl naturally into tumbling waves which fell to the middle of her back. Apparently, the girl had diligently paid attention to how Mirabelle applied her make-up; her high cheekbones were brought out with a peachy tone of blush, her eyeliner subtly cat-eyed to accentuate the almond shape of her eyes which were framed by thick, full lashes, and to her lips she had applied a smear of sheer lip gloss. The more Mirabelle stared at this beautiful creature in front of her, the more she realized it wasn't what was happening on the outside that was drawing her attention to Sansa. Rather, it was the fact that the girl seemed to glow, her beauty radiant and filling the room with light, or so it seemed.

"Happy birthday!," Mirabelle finally managed as she tried to keep herself from staring at Sansa.

Before the girl could utter a response, Bronn pushed forward and animatedly extended his arms towards Sansa who recoiled a bit, the sting of embarrassment having been slow to heal it would seem.

"Sansa! Get over here, girl, and give Uncle Bronn a hug."

At that, Sansa's blue eyes went wide and her mouth fell open a bit before she shot a bewildered stare in Mirabelle's direction. Sansa, like everyone else, would have to be exposed to Bronn's sense of humor one way or another. Not waiting for her response, Bronn wrapped Sansa up in his arms and squeezed her, eliciting the tiniest of squeaks from the girl as she seemed to go rigid within his grip.

Rolling her eyes, Mirabelle poked Bronn hard on the shoulder. Relenting, he released his hold on Sansa who sucked in a relieved breath.

"Seriously?!  _Uncle_ Bronn? Could you be any creepier?," Mirabelle exclaimed before smiling warmly at Sansa and giving her a much gentler and consequently less creepy embrace.

"Doesn't everyone have a creepy uncle?," Bronn retorted with a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders.

Mirabelle knew she should have seen this coming. Bronn couldn't help, but bust people's chops and yet it was truly a symbol of his endearment.

As Mirabelle's eyes roved over the open space of Sandor's living room and kitchen, she couldn't help the smile that crept across her lips. Tokens of Sansa's presence were everywhere; her wedged heels placed neatly by the back door next to Sandor's shoes, a powder compact on the edge of the counter, her handwriting on a piece of paper hung up on the refrigerator door, and the sweetened scent of her perfume lingering in the air. The sincerity of joy it brought to her was two-fold; the hope that perhaps Sansa was beginning to see something of the man Sandor truly was and had begun to feel comfortable in his company coupled with the prospect that Sandor had finally found some happiness for himself.

A shadow hovering in the corner of her eye drew Mirabelle's attention towards the figure obscuring the streaming of sunlight through the room. Her brother quietly paced towards Sansa's side with his arms tightly crossed about his chest.

"Are you giving her a hard time?," he broke in as the room fell silent, an effect Sandor so often had.

Bronn feigned offense at that before cajoling Sansa into another forced embrace, one which intimated how thoroughly he was enjoying the girl's reaction.

"Me? No! Come on, Sansa! Bring it in, girl." Despite her polite smile, Sansa seemed to cringe a bit, something that did not go unseen by Bronn as he called attention to her hesitation at his unwelcomed affection. "You've seen me naked so you're not allowed to be shy now."

Something pulled Mirabelle's attention towards her brother then, the very air itself grew thick with a certain heaviness she knew to always associate with her brother's often brooding temperament.

"Bronn…," Sandor intoned on a deep, rasping voice, one thick with the undercurrents of a warning.

"Has she seen you naked yet?," Bronn pushed as he relented once more by releasing Sansa.

Mirabelle watched as Sansa shifted towards Sandor, the movement done more out of instinct than deliberate thought and that alone speaking volumes about the evolution of the energy shared between the two of them. For a fleeting moment, Sandor raised his hand to protectively place it on the small of Sansa's back before remembering something of the charade at which they were both failing miserably.

"Probably for the best," Bronn muttered now with his eyes moving towards Mirabelle. Even as he fell in by her side, defeated by the disenchantment his japes were met with, Mirabelle steadied her eyes towards her brother and Sansa.

Suddenly realizing she was watching, Sandor let his hand fall away from Sansa and instead shoved both of his hands into his pockets for safe keeping lest his own movements instinctively gravitate towards the girl at his side. Whatever their agreed upon denial, it was manifesting pitifully in dodgy looks shared between one another, awkwardly stoic body language, and above all the surmounting tension as both fought tooth and nail against what had apparently become an entirely effortless sort of affection.

Mirabelle knew not the extent of that affection; not until her eyes meandered from a silent and flushed Sansa who was mindlessly folding and unfolding her hands together in front of her to Sandor who was already looking back at Mirabelle. When their eyes met, he did not look away, but instead offered some truth of himself by letting his stare steadfastly remain on her. The passing knowledge between brother and sister was subtle and unfolded within mere seconds, but with just a look Mirabelle knew what she had suspected for some time now. Her brother's eyes, usually so impassible, rippled with waves of guilt, joy, vulnerability, frustration, and pride as each besieged his countenance in turn until finally he lowered his eyes to the floor at his feet.

No amount of feigned apathy and disinterest could disguise what she saw in her brother's eyes. He knew that as well as she and perhaps with that knowledge Sandor turned to Sansa then, casting a gaze of simultaneous admiration and yearning towards the girl. Sansa lifted her eyes to Sandor in return and Mirabelle understood then something she had only heard about, but had never seen before. Arianne had told her once of a couple she knew and how when the two of them entered a room, you  _knew_ they were together. It was never anything they said and it wasn't as though they were overtly affectionate with one another. In fact, they could be in separate corners of the room, engaged in separate conversations, but still complete strangers could walk into the room and instinctively understand that those two belonged to one another. It wasn't as though Mirabelle ever doubted her friend's anecdotal account of an other-wordly connection between two human beings, but she didn't fully believe until now. She believed now and not because she could see it, but because she could feel it. The feeling alone sent a wave of goosepumps to prickle her skin and sent the hair on her arms to stand on end.

Only now did Mirabelle come to realize that indeed nothing at all had been said, no words uttered and no confessions put forth willingly. Yet the story of their affinity for one another was written in their eyes and truly the energy of the room seemed to change when they were together; an electricity injected into the air itself, a transcendental movement that seemed to defiantly shape itself into the temporal world. It was undeniable and danced on the proclivity of being almost stifling.

She could not say with any bit of certainty whether or not Bronn was privy to the unspoken exchange between Sansa and Sandor. However, by the way he had quieted and continued to shift uncomfortably at her side, she imagined that no one in the room was ignorant to what was unfolding. Least of which her and if Mirabelle knew anything, she knew something had changed in her brother and in Sansa too.

When it was obvious she would have to be the one to break the suffocating tension and silence that had descended upon them, Mirabelle snatched up a gift bag and stepped towards Sansa.

"Here. Open this. It's the first of many."

Mirabelle handed the small pink bag to Sansa and waited in yet another strange silence as the girl gently pulled free the black tissue paper and let it fall softly to the floor. Sansa's face flooded with confusion as she pulled out the bikini top first; the blue fabric was covered over with black lace-like material on the bust and was fitted with removable straps. Lifting her eyes towards Mirabelle, Sansa's eyes went wide.

"Is it…?"

The girl let her words fall off, embarrassed to inquire much further.

"It's a swim suit," Mirabelle assured with a laugh. "I guess it does look a bit like lingerie."

"I helped pick it out," Bronn beamed until Sandor's head whipped towards him with an unamused scowl creasing his lips, which were pressed firmly together. "The color. You know, just the…color…blue," Bronn clarified as he stammered his way through an explanation, only intensifying another wave of awkwardness.

Remaining politely composed despite the deep shade of pink flushing across her cheeks, Sansa stepped forward and gave Mirabelle a gentle hug.

"It's beautiful. Thank you," she whispered into the embrace.

"You and I should hit the beach now and catch up. And it will give the boys time to talk too." Mirabelle shifted her gaze between her brother and Bronn, both of them clearly dreading whatever uncomfortable conversation they were about to have with one another.

Sansa nodded her head and began towards the hallway, Mirabelle right behind her until her brother's voice bellowed through the room.

"Mirabelle, you and I need to talk."

The tone of his voice stopped her midstride. It wasn't commanding, as Sandor's voice sometimes was. All things considered, his words were spoken rather flatly yet came as a concession, a relenting of sorts.

Mirabelle turned towards her brother and saw him standing across the room from her, his eyes searching her face earnestly; brooding having been abandoned and now she saw him truly.

Mirabelle kept her brother's gaze, steely eyes peering out towards its mirror image. She had always thought she and Sandor were meant to be twins; if not by their looks then definitely by the unspoken connection they shared. And it was that connection that was speaking now although an outward silence remained.

Only now did she realize Bronn and Sansa had each left the room, quietly and unnoticed.

* * *

Sandor leaned his weight against the counter and felt the granite edge digging into his back. It wasn't exactly the most comfortable place to situate himself, but then again nothing about this situation was comfortable.

Mirabelle felt like a stranger to him and the feeling was very much mutual, he surmised. It was a tit-for-tat of sorts; both of them staring up at each other in turn through their eyelashes, hoping to catch an evaluating glimpse of the other without getting caught and both entirely unsuccessful as their eyes would meet and then dart away. Long gone were the days of the sibling sorties which involved steady rotations of childish insults and whacks across the arms, shoulders, and head. This was, for all intents and purposes, the adult version of how Sandor and his sister approached their misunderstandings and conflicts; neither willing to be the first to bend the knee yet both eager for their spats to be dealt with and forgotten.

Sandor wasn't even sure what conflict had wedged itself between him and his sister now. He wasn't even sure if it was conflict at all. There was no animosity, no words each had held onto for far too long which were now eating away at them, no miscommunication that needed clarifying. Instead, it was as if they had both anticipated disappointment from the other and that perceived disappointment had manifested into the unlikely and entirely unsolicited awkwardness gulfed between them.

Relenting, Sandor lifted his head and steadied his eyes on Mirabelle. She looked like a child to him now. Her long hair was resting against the sides of her flushed cheeks, her fingers nervously working the hem of her shirt, her eyes fallen away. She looked so small and although Sandor was absolutely sure he was creating this illusion in his mind, that instinctual need to protect all that was left of his true family was sparked by his baby sister simply standing in front of him. Sandor took a step towards her, realizing that as her brother and her protector he owed it to her to let down his guard first, stubborn as he may be. Sighing deeply before speaking, Sandor unbound his arms from his chest and let them fall to his side.

"Listen, Mirabelle, I-"

Before he could continue, Mirabelle interrupted as her head snapped up, a look of relief rushing across the features of her face and soothing away the look of worry that had only moments before been heavily pasted there.

"Sandor, its fine. You don't have to explain anything to me." Worry had been replaced by guilt in her countenance, the vestiges of judgment shooed away. Neither had any room to judge the other; that would be the very definition of the pot calling the kettle black.

Mirabelle seemed to know that something had happened between him and Sansa. A part of Sandor was relieved by that. He didn't want to explain anything to his sister, to somehow find the words to describe the series of events which led to where he was now. That would require an explicit understanding on his part and that was something he admittedly did not wholly possess as of yet. Still, a part of Sandor was frustrated. He wanted to explain things to his sister or rather have  _her_ explain things to  _him._ He wanted her advice and her guidance in an area of his life that he was so profoundly inexperienced in.

Before Sandor could even open his mouth to release words which would undoubtedly become tied on his tongue, Mirabelle hurried towards her purse and carefully pulled out a black wooden box. Crouched on the floor next to her bag, Mirabelle swiveled slightly towards Sandor, a soft smile pulling on the corners of her lips.

"I brought it with me," she declared on something scarcely above a whisper. "Do you want to see?"

Sandor nodded his head and watched as Mirabelle gently lifted herself to her feet and quietly paced towards him. She set the box on the counter before taking a step back and placing her hands firmly on her hips. For many moments, they both stared at the wooden box. It was as he remembered it. It had been maintained gracefully despite its age, the immaculate care that had been taken with it obvious with every detail that remained as it ever was.

Taking a deep breath, Sandor opened the box and stared at the object inside. Once more, doubts began to seep into his mind, raising questions with their mere presence. Internally, Sandor reminded himself that Sansa deserved something like this. Still the doubts remained. He had never, not in his entire life, offered something like this to someone.

"Do you think she'll like it?," Sandor inquired of his sister on a voice that was hushed in its own right, but manifested in more of a groan than anything else.

Mirabelle stepped towards him now and wrapped an arm around his back at the blades of his shoulders. Staring down at the object tucked neatly in the box, Mirabelle gave a tiny squeeze of his arm with her fingers.

"I think she'll love it." Her voice spoke of merriment and of pride. Although he wasn't quite sure where to place his sister's pride, he had hoped that it was with him; that he had made his sister proud. Never before had Sandor really bothered himself to think whether or not Mirabelle was proud of him. Somehow that had changed and he felt the tension he had been holding onto dissolve away.

"And you sure you're okay with this?," Sandor pressed as he turned towards Mirabelle.

"Yes," she asserted without missing a beat as she met his imploring stare. "We talked about it. If anyone should have it, I want it to be her."

He nodded his head at that, remembering very well the conversation he had had with Mirabelle pertaining to this particular object he was intending as a gift. Sandor had first kissed Sansa Stark on a Saturday and he had called his sister on Monday. Sunday had been reserved for worship. And Sandor had spent the day just that way; worshipping Sansa's lips, heavenly as they were.

For that reason, he waited until Monday and called Mirabelle. Although he told her nothing of what happened, he had told Mirabelle what he intended to give Sansa for her birthday. When he was met with silence on the other end, Sandor had second guessed himself and cursed his stupidity at this sort of shit.  _'Oh Sandor,'_ Mirabelle finally broke in on a shaky voice.  _'That is so utterly perfect for her and if anyone should have it, it's Sansa. Absolutely, yes.'_ He had had the idea in his head even before Sansa offered her lips to him. The day they left Moriarti's place he had spent a portion of the morning sitting in his office chair and staring at the intended gift laid out on his desk, going back and forth with himself as he wondered if it was too much. And then it dawned on him that nothing would ever be too much for her, he knew even then.

Sandor tucked one arm across his chest and brought his other hand up to rest beneath his chin. Despite his sister's reassurance, something was still nagging at him, tugging at his core. Mirabelle watched him. He could feel her staring, her eyes working to puzzle out his vexations.

"I knew when you called and asked me to bring it," she admitted quietly with a certain hesitance in her voice. "I knew something had happened between the two of you."

Sandor knew now the meaning of his sister's silence; her silence over the phone and her silence now as she waited for a response. He may not have to explain himself fully to his sister, but she wasn't letting him off the hook without at least admitting that he was involved with Sansa.

"Is it wrong of me?," Sandor offered as he brought the hand resting beneath his chin to his forehead. Squeezing his eyes shut, Sandor pressed his fingers firmly against his brow bone and began working out an emerging headache.

"Does it feel wrong to you?," he heard Mirabelle reply thoughtfully.

It was such a loaded question and he doubted Mirabelle even realized it. To date, he hadn't found a flaw with Sansa. Everything where she was concerned felt right, felt as it was meant to be.

"I don't know," Sandor finally started as he settled both hands on his hips. "I mean, jesus fucking christ, she's Ned Stark's daughter. And young. Sweet. Doesn't deserve to be caught up in all this bullshit." Sandor removed his hands from his hips and gestured about the room, the empty symbol of what he had made of his life.

"That's not what I asked," Mirabelle calmly remarked in response to all he had said, had confessed. "Does it  _feel_ wrong to you? In your heart, your gut?"

Unlike the first time she had posed this question, Sandor understood the simplicity of his answer which flashed across his mind instantaneously, screaming through the darkness until he saw its light.

"No. It feels right," he answered adamantly and truthfully. In his life where hardly anything had ever held any semblance of sense, Sansa made more sense than anything he had known. His life had been chocked full of senselessness; the death of this mother when he and Mirabelle were still so young, the murder of his father by his own flesh and blood, the years spent caught up in an underworld of violence and making a living off of the suffering of others. Hardly a god damn thing had ever felt right. Except Sansa. She felt right in his life, but he couldn't fathom a way to maintain that purity and perfection he found in her while chaos was steadily building its momentum somewhere in the world and was patiently and relentlessly seeking them out.

"Sandy, I know you well enough to know that if you want something, you don't give a flying fuck what you have to do to get it. You don't care who their daddy is or isn't."

Mirabelle had him there. He wanted Sansa and truly at the end of the day, it didn't fucking matter what Ned Stark thought about it. If he never had to deal with the man again, it would be too soon, but he was, after all, Sansa's father. Sandor would sooner or later have to face him and under an entirely different set of circumstances than he could have ever imagined.

"This is about Gregor, isn't it?," Mirabelle added on a tremulous exhale, her fear seeming to rise within her as she breathed life into their brother's name.

Mirabelle feared nothing the way she feared Gregor and Sandor knew he could never truly understand her fear. He at least stood a chance against Gregor, but Gregor was never one to fight fair and Mirabelle was often an easier target, helpless and defenseless as she was against him.

Feeling his hands ball instinctively into fists, Sandor shifted his stare out the sliding glass door and towards the expanse of his back yard. The trees surrounding his property swayed in unison with the breeze, their movement somehow looking grotesque to him as the room seemed to darken simultaneously with his thoughts.

"He's out there, Mirabelle. And I feel like a god damn coward holed up in this place, hiding away, and just waiting for him to strike first. I need to make a move. I need to do  _something_."

Sandor felt his frustration beginning to surge within him, his skin feeling hot as the blood coursed furiously through his veins. He was antsy, anxious, and above all else paranoid. Sansa had been a welcomed distraction to all of that, but distractions are temporary and hardly the solution to problems, he knew.

Sensing the fluctuation in his mood, Mirabelle stepped towards him and offered her arms to him in a comforting embrace.

"Maybe he's waiting for you to make the first move," she reassured although her voice was still strained with fear. Her words seemed more a gesture of self-reassurance than anything. "Maybe he wants you to do that."

Sandor had already mulled over that thought. In fact, he had spent countless hours speculating what Gregor was doing, what he was planning, and what he was counting on Sandor to do, but at the end of the day it was all just speculation. There had been only one thing he could definitively say for certain.

"No. No, he's watching. I can feel it in my bones. I can't stay here forever. I can't just hideaway like this. We're sitting ducks right now."

Sandor felt a shudder work its way through his body. He couldn't say with a certainty that this was his own fear, but he knew damn well it was fear for Sansa and for Mirabelle too. All his life, he had made it his endeavor to protect his sister. Now that endeavor was multiplied with the addition of one more woman he had sworn to himself that he would protect. And if he failed to protect either one of them…

Sandor shuddered once more at the thought and understood now the source of his profound fear, a fear he had never quite felt to this extent before.

"What are you going to do?," Mirabelle pleaded on a thin whisper of a voice. When he looked to her, she once more looked like something of a child to him, fearful and desperate for him to tell her it would all turn out okay. She knew all too well though that he could never promise her that and he was never one to lie to her. Instead, Sandor steadied his gaze onto Mirabelle's face, his words spoken resolutely and with the strength he knew she needed so desperately to cling to in this moment.

"I've got to go back. Regroup the men and get ready," Sandor affirmed as he once more shifted his eyes towards the sliding glass door, knowing all too well Gregor was somewhere beyond. How close, he couldn't say, but it hardly mattered now.

"Get ready for your rumble with our brother?," Mirabelle inquired uneasily with a chuckle as her hands folded in front of her and she shook her head.

 _If only._ He wished he could reciprocate her chuckle, to ease her worried mind the best he could, but the somber reality of the situation had finally struck him, its heaviness boring into him with all its gruesome might.

"This won't be a rumble, Mirabelle," Sandor cautioned on a quiet voice, as if speaking the truth of the matter might amplify the reality. "It's going to be all out war. And a bloody fucking mess before it's all over with."

Mirabelle was a smart girl and she knew how to read between the lines. The writing she would find there was simple and unforgiving. Before long, one of her brothers would be put in the ground, cold as the earth itself, and the other. The other would live to see another day.

* * *

The scars had healed. Sansa saw as she peeled off her dress and slipped into the blue bathing suit. The twin striations across her cheek and neck had faded to nothing more than darkened lines against the porcelain of her skin. The bruises in the shape of Leon's fingers had faded to yellowed impressions, hardly discernible as finger marks anymore. Her body had set about easing away past memories of pain; cuts and scrapes healed, bruises faded, and no longer did the mirror hold the reflection of a girl who had been battered relentlessly.

Today was her birthday.

Today she was a woman, an adult, or so society dictated. And the reflection staring back at her was that of a woman who had finally shed the physical tokens of heartache and struggle. Sansa wasn't quite sure when it had happened. After all, she looked at herself in the mirror everyday and everyday she had seen the scars. Slowly and overtime, they had healed until she was whole again, but she hadn't noticed until now. The process had occurred without her knowledge or supervision.

Before, she would look in the mirror and imagined each bruise, each cut, each scrape held an ominous reminder, a story of struggle and of survival.  _'Don't ever forget,'_ they seemed to say. And now they were gone and the thought bellowed forth from some abyss of a broken heart.  _'Don't ever forget who you are, where you come from.'_ Wounds may heal, but a heart never forgets. A heart remembers all the hurts, all the wrongs never made right, all the abrasions time had forgotten to heal. Life would go on, the sun would rise, the sun would set, the days would come, and they would go, and still a heart remembers.

Yet each day Sansa laughed more and cried less. Each night nightmares fled and dreams of sweetness graced her slumber. Just like the wounds of her flesh, the wounds of her heart were healing too. Unbidden and unknowingly, the severity of suffering was soothed by the kindness of a man who had, only two weeks ago, been a stranger in the shadows. And although she could not see the bruises of her heart fading to yellow and she could not see the spindling striations lighten to nothingness which rendered her heart whole again, Sansa knew she was healing. One day, she might hold a mirror to her heart and perhaps she would find no remembrance there, the visages of loss would be faded, indiscernible and, like so much else, would seem like a past life memory.

Sansa had awoken early this morning and found the bedroom caught somewhere at the intersection of light and dark; the sun rising, the moon falling, and the darkness fading away to light. It seemed she had found herself somewhere within the shades of grey. Lying awake, Sansa listened to the steady rhythm of Sandor's breaths beside her and tried to fall back into sleep. Softly closing her eyes, she waited for sleep to take her, but it never did oblige and so instead she curled up next to Sandor, her chest pressed against his back.

She studied the scene from Dante's inferno and marveled at the details; the thin black lines painstakingly sketched and layered until an image formed, the mournful bodies reaching up to the vessel as Phlegyas ferried Dante and Virgil across the river Styx, a watery eternity for the wrathful. Perhaps it had been the moments spent studying that dreadful image or perhaps it was more, but something had felt off to Sansa as soon as she opened her eyes today.

Her Grandmother Tully used to talk at great length about how you could  _feel_ the Universe shift, as she called it. The entire world seemed as though it was filtered through different hues, different modes of energy. Like much of whatever her Grandmother raved about, Sansa hadn't paid much attention to it, but rather politely put on the front that she was listening when in all reality she was daydreaming about something else.

As she awoke this morning, Sansa finally understood though what her Grandmother had meant by a "shift." Her eyes recognized everything around her, the features of the bedroom in which she had slept, and yet everything felt strange and foreign to her.

Today was her birthday and today something wasn't quite right _._

Sandor had felt it too, she decided. Nothing much was said between them about it and they carried on like they normally did- laughing, kissing, and embracing- and yet they both possessed an astute understanding of one another well enough to recognize the other felt  _it_ too _-_ whatever  _it_ was.

Across the backyard, down the thick wooden planks jutting out of the steep slope of the cliff side, and to the sandy, desolate expanse below Mirabelle stared at Sansa, peering out from underneath her thick, dark lashes. When Sansa would meet her stare, Mirabelle would simply smile; a delicate smirk that crinkled her nose and seemed to flash radiantly in her eyes.

As they laid out beach towels and settled onto them, Sansa finally turned to Mirabelle.

"You keep looking at me and smiling," Sansa whined as Mirabelle did it once again, her head swiveling towards Sansa while she propped herself up on her elbows and sprawled her legs out across the length of the beach towel.

Laughing as she pushed her sunglasses onto her face, Mirabelle set her now obscured stare towards Sansa.

"I hear you've been a  _very_ naughty girl," she teased with her voice low and sultry as she reached for a bottle of sunscreen.

"Wh-what?," Sansa stammered in surprise as her eyes widened. She wondered what exactly Mirabelle meant.

"You and my brother," the woman continued as she sat up and squirted a glob of sunscreen in the palm of her hand before working it across each of her arms.

"What did he tell you?," Sansa pouted as she shifted towards Mirabelle and crossed her legs to sit Indian style.

"Nothing. He's not one to kiss and tell," Mirabelle responded with a throaty laugh as she continued slaving sunscreen across her legs now. "Assuming he's kissed you," Mirabelle added with a devilish grin as she tossed her hair over her shoulders to let it cascade down her back.

Sansa said nothing, but only smiled a bit. It was a secret smile, one she thought Mirabelle might not notice and one beckoned forth by the thought of the first time Sandor had kissed her.

"Hmm. Judging by that smile, he  _has_  kissed you," Mirabelle beamed as she lay on her side towards Sansa and rested her head in her hand with her elbow firmly planted against the beach towel.

With a girlish giggle erupting from her lips, Sansa buried her face in her hands as she nodded her head. The fluttering of butterflies tickled her from within and Sansa let her hands fall to her side once more.

"Well, did you like it?," Mirabelle urged with a sweeping grin plastered about her face. As Mirabelle pushed her sunglasses up on her head, Sansa could see the woman eagerly considering her with anticipation flickering in her cool grey eyes.

Slowly nodding her head, Sansa bit her bottom lip before feeling it pull into a coquettish smile. Mirabelle squealed at that and gave Sansa a playful nudge.

"You little harlot! You loved it!," she exclaimed breathlessly as she threw her head back and erupted with laughter.

Averting her eyes, Sansa once more gave a tiny nod of her head. Indeed she did love it.

Her attraction to Sandor had been a whisper from the beginning; something quiet that was felt instantaneously the night his eyes had in fact devoured her whole at the Royce party. Only now the whisper was a voice loud and clear in her head, a declaration that she was only now ready to admit to anyone other than herself.

Her body seemed to hum against his touch, his lips were always warm against her skin, his tongue divine as it roamed her mouth and the spots of her body that she allowed. She felt safe with him, taken care of, but she was both captivated and enthralled by the way his body seemed to consume her, his size so imposing and dominating. She found that she liked it, more than that she had come to crave it. Her body reacted to him in ways it had never reacted to anyone before.

Sansa could feel the heat moving down her neck and chest. She was flushed and probably turning a nice shade of beet red right now. In an effort to hide the visible tinctures of her embarrassment at the subject matter, Sansa turned to lie on her stomach, her weight propped up on her elbows.

"You've been kissed before right?," Mirabelle further pressed as she lowered herself to lay on her back before flicking her sunglasses back over her eyes. "I mean, he wasn't your first kiss."

"Yeah, of course I've been kissed before," Sansa snorted, trying her best not to seem like some Pollyanna who had been sheltered her entire life. Although, she imagined by comparison that's exactly what she looked like to Mirabelle.

Sansa had kissed boys before, but that was just it. They were boys; boys who would clumsily let their tongues dart in and out of her mouth while their hands awkwardly clutched to her sides before tentatively trying to make a b-line directly to her breasts. When she would politely grab their hands and place them back on her waist or hips, they would break the kiss and pout, thinking that they could get their way with sudden aloofness.

But those were just boys and Sandor was a man, more a man than any of those boys could ever hope to be. Sandor's kisses effortlessly oscillated between consuming and passionate to slow and sensual. His lips roamed her body, taunting and teasing her until his tongue would ease against her skin and move gradually towards its next destination. Sandor seemed to savor her, drinking her down like a fine wine and enjoying her taste. His hands flowed over her body, lingering in places where he knew she loved to feel his touch and stopping short of where he knew she wasn't ready to be touched. All she had to do is give a little squirm and he would know it was too much. Without protest and without breaking their kiss, he would ease away and diligently lavish another part of her body with his full attention.

"Did he kiss you first or did you kiss him?," Mirabelle probed, her words sing-songing from her lips which were still crooked in a delighted smile.

"He kissed me first," Sansa quietly revealed as she twirled a lock of hair around her index finger.

At that, Mirabelle commenced a slow clap, clearly impressed that her brother had been the one to kiss Sansa first.

"Good man," she cheered. "The guy should be the one to make the first move when it comes to the kiss. The girls can take it from there."

Lifting her index finger, Mirabelle slid her sunglasses down to rest on the bridge of her nose while she once more gauged Sansa's reaction.

Immediately, Sansa furrowed her brow and let the lock of hair uncoil from around her finger. She hadn't considered taking the lead with their next steps and it wasn't for lack of wanting to. If anything it was more for her profound lack of understanding at  _what_ exactly to do.

No one had ever turned her on like Sandor did. When they would come up for air after kissing like mad, lips swollen and each of them panting in both exhaustion and unresolved yearning, Sansa could feel the pulsing and subtle ache between her legs. Beyond that, she could feel the wetness that had gathered there and saturated her panties. The warmth and wetness between her legs was like nothing she had experienced before. Sure, she had been turned on and every now and then would tentatively reach between her legs, timidly exploring with her fingers until she found what felt good and elicited unbidden moans from her lips. Now she found herself wondering what it might be like if he touched her, if he slid his fingers amongst her folds and felt the wetness that had pooled between her legs, a wetness that was for him, and if he could find ways to make her feel good, ways she had never been able to find herself.

He wanted her too. She had both felt and seen the intense hardness that emerged shortly after the kissing would begin. In a flush of boldness, Sansa had on a few occasions pressed herself against his hardness, swiveling her hips slowly over his stiff manhood out of curiosity as much as a want to tease him like he teased her. His reaction only enticed her more; the way he would grab her hips, dominating her with his hands even though she was the one on top of him, the way he showed her what he liked with desire dark in his eyes, the grumbling moans he offered as she followed his lead, the way he would commandingly keep his hands behind his head and couldn't take his eyes off of her as she rocked against him.

She certainly wanted to take things further with him, but she also wanted to go slow. He had been so patient with her so far and she was unsure how long that would last. Ultimately, she was scared; afraid of just how inexperienced she was, afraid if she did take things further she might do something wrong and disappoint him, afraid that once she started down the path of getting physical with him there would be no turning back. The catalog of fears in her mind were at odds with her desire to let him explore her body and teach her all the ways he liked his pleasure. More than anything, Sansa didn't want Sandor to misinterpret her hesitance as disinterest.

Glancing towards Mirabelle, Sansa could see that she was peacefully soaking up the warmth of the sun, her skin glistening a pale white with both sunscreen and her natural creamy pallor. Biting her lip, Sansa shyly spoke, rousing Mirabelle from her solar solace.

"Can I ask you something?"

Sansa's voice sounded timid and childlike in her own ears and yet Mirabelle seemed to not notice as she hardly moved a muscle.

"Yeah. Shoot," she replied on an exhale.

Slowly, Sansa pushed herself up and sat facing Mirabelle.

"I guess I was just...," Sansa began, but abruptly stopped, the words seeming like molasses on her tongue. Sucking in a deep breath, Sansa steadied her voice and tried again. "What I want to know is…"

This time her hesitance did not go unnoticed as Mirabelle turned her head and cocked an eyebrow at Sansa.

Exhaling a nervous laugh, Sansa shook her head, perhaps with the subconscious hope it might loosen the words from her tongue.

"What's it like when you…you know?," Sansa finally managed, although she'd hardly call it a successful inquiry especially as Mirabelle looked profoundly confused, even from behind her sunglasses.

"When I what?," the woman replied before abruptly sitting up on her beach towel, kicking up bits of sand as she did.

"Oh no," Mirabelle exclaimed as she frantically shook her head. "No, no, no. Are you asking me about sex?"

Sighing once more, Sansa bit her lip and nodded her head. She had come this far so there was no use in pretending that that wasn't what she was getting at. It wasn't as if she could ask Sandor these questions. No, this was a conversation meant to be shared between her and Mirabelle.

"Sansa," Mirabelle started as she clasped her hands together and pressed them against her chest. "I would normally love to talk about this with you, but it's my brother we'd be talking about."

"I just want to know-," Sansa continued, now with a resolute desire to get her questions answered once and for all. Her sentence was interjected as Mirabelle began to once more shake her head.

"La la la la," Mirabelle chanted as she pressed her palms hard against her ears. "Say what? I can't hear you!"

"Does it hurt?," Sansa finally shouted so ungodly loud that she immediately cringed at the thought of Bronn and Sandor hearing her from all the way above, across the yard, and to the deck where they were sorting out their own issues.

At that, Mirabelle erupted into a fit of laughter, removing her hands from her ears and clutching her sides as she gasped for breaths. Sansa couldn't stop her own laughter, which seemed to egg Mirabelle on further.

Catching her breath finally, Mirabelle pulled the sunglasses from off her face and tossed them to side before swiping away at tears that had formed in her eyes during her fit of giggles.

"Alright fine," she conceded before taking a long moment to mull over her thoughts.

"It depends," Mirabelle finally answered. "Every woman is different. For me, it wasn't as bad as everyone says it was. I mean, yeah it sort of hurt, but it wasn't this horrible, bloody experience everyone had told me it would be. Now if you ask Arianne, she'll tell you, in  _great_ detail, that it hurt like hell."

Sansa winced at that as if she could imagine the pain, although she had no benchmark to measure it by. It's not as if anyone had ever touched her between the legs.

"You have to remember how small Arianne is though. You're tall like me so I think maybe that might make it less painful." Mirabelle shrugged her shoulders as she spoke. Although her words were reassuring, her body language suggested she really couldn't know for sure how Sansa's first time might turn out.

Chewing her bottom lip, Sansa mindlessly ran her fingers through the sand in front of her

"Are you thinking about giving up the goods?," Mirabelle finally broke in gently, her tone non-judgmental, but maternal nonetheless.

"What? No! Of course not!," Sansa shrieked although it was potentially something of a white lie because she had entertained the thought in preparation for events to take place in the far future with Sandor. "I was just…curious. That's all."

The truth was Sansa was far from ready to let Sandor take her virginity, but she could see herself with him and imagined if she wanted anyone to have it, she wanted it to be him.

Mirabelle leaned forward to catch Sansa's eyes in a sincere gaze.

"Listen, lord knows I don't want to talk about you and my brother fucking. But I will tell you this. He cares a lot about you.  _A lot._ And he would never pressure you to do things before you're ready or try to take advantage of you. With that being said, he's still a man."

Sansa stiffened at that, the words beckoning her spine to extend until she was sitting straight up.

"What does that mean?," she quavered in a quiet voice that suggested her fears were perhaps real. Perhaps he was growing impatient with her.

"It means if you give them an inch, they will try to take a mile," Mirabelle assured softly. "They have dicks and they like to do things with them."

Sansa pursed her lips at that as her eyes shifted from Mirabelle's face down towards her lap. Sighing, Mirabelle brushed the tips of her fingers underneath Sansa's chin to lift her head and once more locked her eyes to Sansa's.

"Listen, my point is,  _you_ set the pace and he'll listen. Don't do anything until you're ready, but, by all means, enjoy yourself too. Sex can be incredible if it's with a guy who really cares for you. And baby, trust me. You've somehow managed to wrap my brother around your little finger and  _that's_ something no one has been able to do."

Feeling reassured by the sincerity of Mirabelle's words, Sansa smiled a bit at that before another question catapulted from the recesses of her mind to spill forth from her lips without a second thought.

"Has he not had girlfriends before?" Sansa had never thought to ask him. It was hardly something she had even thought about, truth be told. Perhaps the part of her that understood jealousy to be a nasty, ugly thing hadn't wanted her to ask.

Squinting her eyes and lifting her head to the sky in thought, Mirabelle shrugged her shoulders and gave a shake of her head.

"He's had girls that would come around; chicks that seemed to get off on the fact that he's a mobster, the head of the organization at that. They never stuck around for long though. He'd either kick them to the curb or they'd decide that the mob life wasn't so appealing after all."

Not quite sure how to take that information, Sansa bit her lip and nodded her head slowly. Mirabelle was honest, sometimes brutally so. Sansa reminded herself that that was a good thing.  _Jealousy, bad. Honesty, good. No matter how it stings._

"Oh. I see," Sansa finally managed by way of reply. Reaching forward, Mirabelle placed her hand on Sansa's forearm and gave a gentle squeeze.

" _None_  have been like you though," the woman intoned, her voice lowered to convey her genuineness it would seem. "Not even close. I've never seen him like this before. Never. He's actually happy! Oh, Sansa. The way he looks at you, girl. Do you not notice that?"

Lifting her eyes to meet Mirabelle's gaze boring into her, Sansa was immediately moved by the sincerity she found resonating there.

 _The way he looks at me._ Sansa moved through the images in her mind, each something like a still frame from a movie until she stopped on one in particular; she in a white dress, one she had fussed with all night, and he staring at her from across the room, tie draped around his neck and whiskey in his hand. His eyes had followed each movement of her body, from the frantic rise and fall of her chest to her subtle squirming and shifting against the wall that had been blessedly situated behind her, holding up her weight lest her knees give out. In her memory, the rest of the room had fallen away, the details blurry at best. All she saw was him and the way he had refused to take his eyes off of her, even when he'd momentarily press the whiskey glass to his lips. Even then he had devoured her and the way his head had slightly tilted forward made his eyes appear darker than what they actually were.

"Yeah. I guess I do," Sansa murmured as she realized Mirabelle was staring silently at her as if trying her damnedest to read Sansa's thoughts, the vestiges of which were probably written across her face with a blush.

"How do you feel about him?," Mirabelle asked still eagerly searching Sansa's face as she awaited an answer.

"I…well…," Sansa stammered as she felt for the first time throughout the duration of their conversation that Mirabelle would be sizing up her answer for a sisterly seal of approval. Instead of trying to find all the eloquent words that might do her feelings justice, Sansa settled for honest simplicity.

"He makes me laugh," she started, matter-of-factly at first until she couldn't help, but smile at the thought of all the ways Sandor had made her erupt into giggles. "Some of the things he says I know he's not trying to be funny, but he is. God! He tried to make me pancakes and-," Sansa stopped herself, realizing now that she was gushing and that Mirabelle might not find the story as hilarious as she did.

"Well," Sansa continued. "Needless to say it was funny. I feel safe with him, like nothing can hurt me ever again when I'm with him. He's sweet to me too. I didn't think he would be at first, but he is. Even though he's sort of rough on the outside, he still does these little things for me that are thoughtful." Sansa realized now that she had been carrying on like this and yet hadn't really answered Mirabelle's question. Lifting her eyes, now it was Sansa who spoke with sincerity. "I care about him too, Mirabelle. I do. I really do."

By the way Mirabelle's eyes seemed to glisten wistfully and a smile had swept across the woman's lips, Sansa imagined she passed whatever "test" Mirabelle had just put her through.

"I'm happy for you, Sansa," Mirabelle cooed. "And for him too. You're a good girl."

Despite her words, Sansa watched as Mirabelle's smile faded and a look of severity besieged her countenance.

"I have to play devil's advocate for just a second though," Mirabelle finally broke in before letting a long silence punctuate whatever else she had to say. "Does it bother you that he's a mob boss? Or if things do work out between the two of you, what will you tell people when they ask how you met him? And your father, what are you going to tell him when you come home with Sandor Clegane, the infamous Hound, as your boyfriend?"

Although Mirabelle spoke slowly and with all the good intentions in the world, the questions hit Sansa in rapid fire; as she absorbed the hit from one question, another would come, heavier than the last until her head was spinning.

"I don't know, Mirabelle," Sansa replied as she shifted uncomfortably from side-to-side, flustered by all the questions. "I don't know." She whispered as she fought to maintain her composure.

"I'm not trying to upset you," Mirabelle soothed. "But these are things you have to think about."

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Sansa had already acknowledged all of these things, but perhaps that was just it. She had acknowledged them fleetingly before shoving them to the back of her mind to forget them there, as if they might disappear if she didn't  _really_ acknowledge them.

"I see him for who he is, not what he does. I see the man he is." Sansa's own words sounded ridiculous, regardless of how true they were. She did see Sandor for the man he was, but that was hardly sufficient for explaining to the rest of the world why she was romantically involved with a mob boss. And it certainly wasn't going to cut it if she ever had to explain her relationship to her Dad.

"Good. I'm happy to hear that," Mirabelle quietly responded, clearly aware of what she had stirred up in Sansa and content for now to let the proverbial dust settle.

"What about you though?," Sansa asked. If this topic was on the table, she would be an idiot not to explore it further. "You're with Bronn and he's an underboss. How do you manage knowing that he's a mobster?"

Mirabelle nodded her head, recognizing the parallels in their situations. Thoughtfully, Mirabelle considered her question, staring off towards the ground as her brow folded while she collected her thoughts.

"Well, I don't ask questions," she finally declared. "I guess that's probably how I've learned to manage things best, but that's my personal choice though. You either know everything or you know nothing. To each their own. As far as I'm concerned, Bronn can do whatever he needs to in the Underworld, but the only thing I've ever asked is that he doesn't keep a goomah."

Sansa cocked an eyebrow at Mirabelle, the term "goomah" completely foreign to her.

"A what?,"

"Goomah," Mirabelle repeated. "It's the American slaughtering of the word  _comare_. A goomah is the girlfriend or mistress of a made man."

Confused, Sansa pursed her lips.

"Well, wouldn't that make you Bronn's goomah?"

By the way Mirabelle wrinkled her nose and abruptly shook her head, Sansa sensed a goomah was not exactly something Mirabelle strived to be.

"No, not really. Most married made men also have mistresses. Those mistresses are referred to as goomahs. The term more applies to extramarital girlfriends. Women that are fucking married men. And as far as I know Bronn isn't married."

Sansa hadn't realized that her mouth was hanging open.  _'Most married made men also have mistresses.'_ While Mirabelle clearly wanted no part of that, her words were nonetheless spoken somewhat casually, as if it were a natural part of a Mafioso's life.

"Oh. I had no idea," Sansa whispered.

Sighing, Mirabelle shook her head, seemingly understanding that for the umpteenth time today she had shocked Sansa with a bit of truth.

"Goomahs are like trophies," she clarified. "A status symbol of the men. Just another way for the men to get involved in dick measuring contests with one another. The more attractive and desirable your goomah usually the higher up you are on the chain of command. The girls aren't stupid either. They seek out men at the top."

Sansa's eyes went wide at that and suddenly she felt disgusted. Not at anyone in particular, but rather at the thought that this was seemingly common practice among made men and furthermore something that was tolerated.

"I'm telling you this not because I think Sandor would  _ever_ have a goomah," Mirabelle interjected as she seemed to sense Sansa's growing uneasiness. "I'm telling you so that you understand women are going to throw themselves at him because he's the  _boss_ of the Moriarti family. A lot of women that flock around see him as a conquest, something to say they 'accomplished' so they can go brag to their cum-dumpster friends about it. They're tramps, Sansa. Pieces of shit. And why would a man want a piece of shit when he can have a diamond, like you? Sandor sees them for what they are and isn't interested. Never has been. I imagine he's been holding out for his diamond to come along."

At that, Sansa exhaled a deep breath, one she had been holding onto, and reveled in the flush of relief that spread throughout her body, easing away any tensions that had settled into her.

"Well, now that Sandor and I are together and you and Bronn are together, those women will just have to go after some of the other men," Sansa declared defiantly, lifting her head high in the air and with a satisfied smile.

Leaning forward, Mirabelle burst into laughter at that before shooting Sansa an affectionate glance.

"Oh you sweet,  _sweet_ baby girl. That's not how women work. As soon as they see you on his arm and see how he looks at you, that's just going to fuel their fire and make them want him  _more_. That's how bitches operate. Tell them the man they already want is off limits, they want him even more."

"Well, that will just have to be too bad," Sansa asserted without missing a beat. "They'll just have to want him from afar."

Undeterred, Sansa held her head up even higher, understanding her worth. She was a lady, after all. Trashy women were a dime a dozen, she knew. She had something they would never have: class. Well, that and Sandor. She had him too.

With a proud smile and a nod of the head, Mirabelle pushed herself to her feet and extended a hand to help Sansa up.

"That's my girl. Come on, let's get you in your party dress. We have your birthday to celebrate."

* * *

Sandor had smoked a quarter of his cigar and still nothing had been said. Bronn sat across from him at the large wooden table out on the deck, staring off towards the expanse of the yard as the distant sound of waves filled the air along with the faint laughter of both Mirabelle and Sansa somewhere on the beach below. The man wouldn't look at him, but instead quietly smoked his own stogie and every once in awhile wiped the palms of his hands against the tops of his thighs. He was nervous and Sandor knew.

They had talked sparingly over the last few days; a phone call here and there about business and not much else. One thing was constant though; the awkward silence before hanging up, the words left unsaid filling the phone line, but neither of them willing to set aside pride and be the first one to let down their guard. The difference, though, was that the phone call would inevitably come to a natural close and all Sandor would have to do was hang up to vanquish the awkward silence.

With Bronn sitting in front of him now, there was no hanging up and no walking away. Now was the time to hash it all out and they were both well aware of it.

"I got a call from Go-Go this morning. Everything in Reno went fine," Bronn finally broke in, apparently hesitant to step the conversation out of the arena of business which had been an established safe zone between the two of them. Anything beyond that was fair game to get ugly if words were not spoken correctly or pride was valued a bit too much.

Sandor said nothing, but instead nodded his head slowly and silently as he set a resolute stare towards Bronn who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Leaning forward, Bronn pressed the lit end of his cigar hard into the glass ashtray placed between them. A gentle breeze kicked up flakes of ash to dance about the vacuous space between them, devoid of words yet filled to the brim with that all-too-familiar awkwardness.

Still Sandor kept his stare steadfast on Bronn and watched as the man's mouth was drawn down in a definitive frown. The lines on his face seemed to deepen, something between frustration and guilt beginning to wear against his skin. Finally, Bronn met Sandor's eyes and held his arms out next to him, palms up in a show of concession.

"Look," Bronn started in, his voice strained with discomfort. "I feel like I need to apologize for something, but I'm not exactly sure what I need to be sorry about."

The man's dull green eyes stared back at him now with the knowledge that the ball was now in Sandor's court. Both men, Bronn and Sandor, understood very well what this was all about. Yet Bronn's declaration came as more of an affirmation that he didn't view his involvement with Mirabelle as a travesty, something to apologize profusely for. The man wasn't sorry about it and Sandor was caught somewhere between respecting Bronn more because of that yet still loathing him because, after all, Mirabelle was his sister.

Sandor took a long pull on his cigar and cocked his head to the side, sizing Bronn up as the man leaned forward and pressed his forearms against the edge of the wooden table. Settling back in his seat, Sandor allowed himself a moment to soak up the sadistic pleasure he was gaining from making his underboss squirm. Like some sort of predator, Sandor was beginning to sense Bronn's fear; not only by the look on his face, but now by the way his body language seemed to shift towards defensiveness. Sandor tilted his head back and slowly released steady rings of smoke from his lips before leaning forward to ash his cigar.

"Bronn, I don't care that you're fucking my sister. I don't care if you're seeing her. I don't care."

Sandor punctuated his words with a gesturing of his hands. The darkened tone of his voice negated any ease Bronn sought to collect from the words alone. Sandor deepened his voice further still as he held Bronn's eyes in an icy glare.

"What I don't like is the sneaking around, the lying behind my back like I'm too fucking stupid to know any better. That shit is what pisses me off, more from you than from her."

It did piss him off and the more he thought about it, the more his blood began to boil and the heat of anger began to rise within him. Sandor heard as Bronn let out a shaky sigh and watched as the man ran both of his hands over his face.

"You're right," Bronn agreed, letting his hands fall to his sides as he finally managed to look Sandor straight in the eyes. "I'm sorry. I should have come to you and asked you before I started seeing her. It won't happen again."

Bronn's disposition, typically so jovial and buoyant, had hardened to a somber seriousness Sandor hadn't quite seen in the man before. Sandor let his cigar tumble between his fingers as he bit his bottom lip. Finally, he exhaled his breath with a puff of smoke and put out his cigar, letting it fall next to Bronn's half-finished one. Settling back in his seat, Sandor rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers in front of him.

"I tried to keep Mirabelle sheltered from 'the life,' you know? I swore up and down I'd cut any of the men to pieces if they tried anything with my sister. Mirabelle is always going to do what she wants and she should. I can't protect her forever and I definitely can't shelter her forever. I knew eventually a time would come where she'd want to be with someone and I should have known it would be with one of my men."

Bronn shifted his gaze up to Sandor and cocked his head to the side, listening attentively and with a sense of surprise. It wasn't as if he and Bronn shared these little details of their hopes and fears with one another. They shared each other's company, but they dealt with their problems well enough on their own. Sandor swallowed hard and fought with himself before releasing his next slew of words. Despite his tentativeness, they came anyway and all Sandor could do was avert his eyes as he choked out the words.

"And if she's going to end up with one of my men, there's no one I'd rather see her with than you, Bronn. All I ask is that you take care of her, treat her right, and protect her."

With his eyes still downcast, Sandor heard Bronn release a breath, one he had been holding onto for quite some time it would seem.

"I will, brother," he assured as he leaned forward towards Sandor, his movement sealing his words with the assertion of truth. "I promise I will."

Sandor snorted out a laugh then and was suddenly relieved how just that simple act seemed to dissipate the tension that had been stifling the air since the moment Bronn and Mirabelle had walked in. Shaking his head, Bronn laughed too although Sandor imagined the man didn't quite know what they were laughing at. Still, he joined in and his M.O. of merriment was reestablished once more.

"Did you think I was going to cut your dick off or something?," Sandor chuckled as he eased back in his seat and considered Bronn with a darkened smile.

"Shit, I don't know! I thought you'd be irate with me," Bronn cried out with a ripple of laughter coloring his voice and his words. "That's why I avoided you the day you and Sansa left Moriarti's." Mimicking Sandor's actions, Bronn settled back in his seat as well and once more let out a deep and resounding sigh to release his tensions.

"No. We're good," Sandor affirmed with a nod, happy to finally put all this bullshit behind them.

Now it was Bronn that seemed to study him; the man's eyes narrowing slightly as his brow seemed to furrow in concentration. His eyes flickered up and down Sandor's form before a mischievous grin flashed across his lips.

"You're rather compliant these days. That wouldn't have to do with a certain long-legged red head, would it?"

Sandor exhaled a laugh at that and slowly shook his head as his eyes fell away.

"Might be. Who knows," he offered with some discretion and a shrug of his shoulders. Sandor wasn't the type to verbally spew his affection for a woman. In fact, it had been quite some time since he had even felt any sort of genuine affection for anyone. Sansa was something special, he knew that much, and Sandor preferred to remain tight lipped about the whole matter. There was no need for everyone and their fucking brother to know about him and Sansa.

"There's something I need to talk to you about," Bronn announced suddenly, the smile he had had moments earlier having melted off his face. Sandor watched as he shifted towards the edge of his seat and rested his forearms on the tops of his legs while interweaving his fingers together.

"I'm listening," Sandor replied.

"There's been some dissension in the ranks," Bronn confided hesitantly with a subtle shifting of his eyes as though he fought to keep them resolutely on Sandor.

"Over what?," Sandor shot back with tendrils of annoyance twining through his demeanor. He had been gone just about a week and could hardly imagine how problems had arisen so soon after his departure.

"Sansa," Bronn admitted although her name rolled off his tongue somewhat obtusely, sounding strange even to Sandor. "Some of the men don't trust her." Bronn leveled an evaluating stare towards Sandor, silently gauging his reaction with dread seeming to stir in his eyes.

Outwardly, Sandor's jaw clenched tightly, his lips sealing together in what he could only imagine was a hardened scowl. With one arm resting on the table, Sandor's hand unwittingly curled into a fist before uncurling once more. Inwardly, his blood was boiling, his muscles ached as they all seemed to seize up at the same time.

"What the fuck does she have to do with anything?," Sandor bellowed out, not caring one whit that his voice may or may not be carrying across the yard and towards the beach below where the girls could hear. "She's an 18 year old girl. Harmless."

His fist slammed against the wooden table as he seethed out his breaths which came as hot bursts through clenched teeth.

"That's the thing though," Bronn tried to explain although Sandor knew his feeble attempts at damage control were useless. "She's not just any 18 year old girl. She's the District Attorney's daughter. The same District Attorney that has been working his ass off for the past two years to bring  _this_ down."

Bronn shifted a finger through the space between him and Sandor who knew well enough what Bronn meant. Ever since the RICO act came into play, bosses and underbosses of organized crime syndicates were fair game to be brought down with the rest of their men. Ned Stark seemed to operate by the "go big or go home" mentality. He wasn't toiling over this case just to put away a few capos and some made men. The man wanted to see the Moriarti family crumble, from the top down.

"Some of the men think she'll turn rat," Bronn continued on hushed tones as if he were convinced the trees themselves were listening. "They think once all this bullshit with your brother is dealt with, you'll hand her right back over to Papa Stark and she'll spill her pretty little guts over everything she's seen, everything she's heard since being in your possession."

Sandor let the words tumble through his head, hoping to perhaps see it from his men's perspective and yet that did little to quell the steady relentlessness of his growing anger. Regardless of whether or not his men had legitimate concerns which Sandor could easily squash, they were going about this dreadfully wrong.

"Don't tell me this is about the RICO case," Sandor seethed as he set a glowering stare onto Bronn, realizing the man was just going to have to suffer the brunt of his agitation. "Our men have hardly batted an eye at it in the past two goddamn years. Why the fuck is it suddenly an issue now? Ned Stark isn't coming out of the woodwork anytime soon and even if he did, his case is shot to shit. Nestor Royce fucked it seven ways to Sunday and now it's been blown wide open. Ned Stark doesn't have a leg to stand on."

Bronn sucked in a deep breath and seemed to steel himself before he continued, all too aware that Sandor's temper should be handled like a ticking time bomb. Any wrong move and he was liable to explode in his rage and not give a fuck who was there to witness it.

"I know that," Bronn started calmly. "But charges have never been formally brought against us so double jeopardy isn't valid here. Ned could easy start from square one. All he has to do is go digging in the past to find a history of offenses. The man can pick and choose the ones he wants. Sansa saw what went down at Emilio's in Vegas. Between what she's seen and what she's heard from you, that's more than enough for Daddy to start all over again. The man is persistent, Sandor. He's not going to back down just because Royce screwed him over."

Sandor said nothing, but rather settled for silence as his eyes icily remained on Bronn. There was something else the man wasn't telling him. There was something more to this than just mistrust of Sansa and qualms with her District Attorney father. Sandor could have guessed these issues might have surfaced sooner or later. Still, something else was setting him off and fueling the fouling of his mood.

"The men think she'll talk and they think you've finally found your weakness in her. They need you, Sandor, and to them you ran off with the DA's daughter to lie in wait until your brother comes knocking. That doesn't sit well with a lot of them. Alberto is doing his best to keep a handle on things while you're away, but he's been out of the game for some time now and at the end of the day they answer to you and not him."

As Sandor searched Bronn's face, he found he was met with the man's damn-near pleading stare. If Sandor didn't know any better, it was as if the family was unraveling, rendered into a state of anarchy just because he had been gone for a matter of a few days.

"That's right. They do answer to me. And when I'm not around they answer to you. And when you're not around, they answer to Alberto. It seems they've forgotten the way the hierarchy works."

Exhaling a sardonic snort, Sandor shook his head before leaning towards Bronn and lowering his voice.

"You think I give a fuck what  _sits_ well with them. How many men have had goomahs that are liabilities? You don't see me getting worked up over it. I tell them to handle their shit and don't let it become a problem."

Sandor let his words fall off there. He didn't feel like he needed to tell Bronn that Sansa Stark of all people wasn't going to be causing problems. At least not in the same way the fake-baked, collagen and silicon injected sluts who flocked around made men did.

"Those were no-name women with some of our soldiers," Bronn pointed out flatly with a bit of hesitance thrown in for good measure. "Sansa has a pretty important last name and you're not just a street soldier."

Before Sandor could reply, Bronn continued, finally revealing what Sandor had sensed was lingering on the tip of Bronn's tongue this entire time.

"That's not all. A few of the capos have talked about wanting Ned Stark dead. They want that threat put down once and for all. Lupara bianca. The man's been off the grid for a couple weeks now. Everyone will think he just never came out of hiding."

 _Lupara bianca._  Sandor may not hail from a Sicilian-American family, but he knew well enough what his men were getting at. Ned Stark would be killed and his body never found. There would be no theatrics with his death, no hidden messages for the law to sort through, no point to be made. He would just vanish and the fact that Ned was already in hiding only made things that much easier.

The path was clear for Sandor and without a second thought, he steadied his eyes to match Bronn, unblinking and with all the heavy-hitting seriousness he could muster.

"I want names." His words were slow, drawn out, and sounded ruthless even in his own hears.

Bronn hesitated and shifted nervously in his seat before dropping his eyes to his hands now resting in his lap.

"It could be men talking into their cups," Bronn tried to assure, his attempt at backpedaling painfully obvious and wholly unsuccessful at this point. "They drink, they gamble, they start talking and getting each other worked up. You know some of the men like to talk big. I just thi-"

"I said I want their fucking names," Sandor snarled as he cut Bronn off mid-sentence. His temper finally reached its breaking point as his fist slammed hard against the table. "Every man who's uttered lupara bianca and Ned Stark in the same breath. I want their names."

Bronn softly shut his eyes momentarily and breathed in deep before reopening his eyes to stare directly at Sandor.

"Marco is one of them," he confided regretfully.

"Marco? Are you sure?," Sandor questioned incredulously, hoping that maybe he had misheard or perhaps Bronn had it wrong.

"Yeah," he confirmed. "Half-Stroke said he heard him talking about it."

The information felt like insult to injury. Marco, of all his men, he would have never expected. The man had been loyal to him since the day Sandor slipped into Alberto's place. Even then Sandor knew that this was the shit he might have to contend with one day. The men, no matter how loyal on a Tuesday, could put a bullet in your brain on a Wednesday. It was the nature of this business and it was why being a boss wasn't all it seemed. Still a betrayal from Marco stung. In fact, it fucking hurt.

"The men who want to drink and fuck and gamble and rant and rave about how I handle my business are of no concern to me. They won't do shit. They talk big and can barely back it up when push comes to shove. It's when they take it upon themselves to start making decisions, that's when I have a problem. If they want lupara bianca, then that's what they'll get. Call whoever you need to call. I want those men to disappear and when the others start wondering where the fuck they've been, maybe they'll get the message loud and clear. I want it done soon too. I'm planning on heading back to Moriarti's after this weekend. I want it taken care of by the time Sansa and I get back."

"Done. I'll make the call tonight," Bronn replied at once. If Sandor was making a decision in haste, he trusted Bronn to correct him and to call him out. It was his duty in Alberto's absence and Alberto apparently had enough on his plate trying to quell whatever whispers of mutiny were rising amongst the men.

From across the table, Sandor could hear the garish tintinnabulation of Bronn's phone as it loudly rung from within his pants pocket. Pressing the palm of his hand hard against his side, Bronn scrambled to quiet the shrill noise.

"Are you going to answer that?" Sandor queried as motioned his head towards Bronn's pocket and the origin of that god awful sound.

Bronn curtly nodded his head and shoved his hand into his pocket. Furrowing his brow at the screen, Bronn flipped the phone open and pressed it to his ear.

"Yeah," he answered with traces of annoyance lingering in his voice. Although, whoever it was on the other end must have extinguished his agitation quickly.

"I have," he responded, his voice inflecting slightly now as he settled a wide-eyed stare onto Sandor. "In fact, he's sitting right here next to me."

A long pause filled the air as Bronn listened intently to whoever was speaking on the other end of the line. Suddenly, Bronn's face went ashen.

"Oh shit. Okay, yeah. Here he is." Sandor watched as Bronn pulled the phone from his face and extended it to him.

"You're gonna wanna take this. It's Damian."

Sandor felt a surge of cold run through his veins. He had been waiting for this call and began to feel his palms go clammy at the thought of what the man might say. Damian Johnson may be a man of the badge, but to call him a cop would be an insult to law enforcement officers everywhere. Sandor had worked with dirty cops before and by comparison, Damian was downright filthy. The man was in knee deep with the Blood Kings, a West Coast gang that sprouted up from the ghettos of Los Angeles and fought like hell to reign supreme over the myriad of other gang-banger groups from the same impoverished area. The Kings were violent, hot-headed, and prolific in the poverty-stricken, run-down areas of the major cities along the west coast.

"Damian," Sandor spoke into the phone, the faintness of static crackling on the other end. He could hear Damian exhale into the speaker, probably interrupted in mid-puff from the joint he was undoubtedly smoking. The man had a penchant for smoking weed confiscated during drug busts while on duty though that was the least of his offenses against the badge he wore.

"I have something on your man," he finally spoke on a smooth, self-assured voice. "He's in Crescent City."

A sense of relief was short lived as suddenly Sandor realized that this information was a double-edged sword: if he was in Crescent City, that meant he was close. And if he was that close, Sandor knew with a certainty he needed to make a move and make it soon. He knew it was coming sooner or later, but this was too soon. He wasn't ready. He wasn't ready for this at all.

"What the fuck is he doing there?," Sandor queried, not ready to give Damian a definitive answer just yet on what he wanted to do with this information.

"Same as you. On the lam and lying low," Damian retorted blankly before exhaling a deep breath into the phone once more.

"And you know for sure it's him?," Sandor shot back. Damian was thorough, but he was also a shit-disturber and willing to turn on a dime if it meant his pockets could get a little extra padding. Sandor's trust in the man only went so far and he couldn't afford to take any chances on a half-assed sighting of the man in question.

"Yeah, man," Damian slurred into the phone, drawing out his words as the buzz of marijuana seemed to take hold. "Saw him myself. My man Maurice saw him too."

Sandor laughed into the phone, not knowing who the fuck Maurice was and therefore not giving a shit whether or not Maurice could confirm if the man Damian saw was really him or not.

"What else do you have on him?," Sandor growled into the phone, his frustration growing.

"A few…um…interesting things. Some shit you'll definitely want to hear."

"And?," Sandor pressed with a grumbling rasp. His patience was wearing thin. He had asked Damian for some Intel, whatever he could dig up, and if he had found anything, Sandor sure as hell wasn't pleased that he was having to extract this information from Damian, who was being nicely compensated for this little assignment he had been tasked with. If anything, Damian should be freely giving Sandor all the information he had requested and agreed to pay for.

Sandor was met with silence, something that only stoked the fires of his agitation. A rustling sound came from the other end of the line and Sandor could tell that Damian had probably shifted the phone to his other ear.

"I can't talk now," he spoke in a hushed tone, his voice thickening with seriousness. "Listen, my leave starts tomorrow for my…uh…indiscretion. I've got some shit to take care of in Medford. I'm heading there as we speak. I can meet you in Crescent City tomorrow if you want to do the damn thing."

Now it was Sandor who fell silent and shifted the phone from one ear to the other as he brought a hand up to his forehead, mulling it over.

"The sooner the better, you know? Before he's on the move again. I can bring some of my guys with me if you want," Damian broke in, clearly not high enough just yet for Sandor's hesitance to go unnoticed.

The man, a shady mother fucker as he may be, had a point. Movement was the key to all of this, Sandor was realizing. Remaining stagnant meant making yourself susceptible to attack. Sandor shot a stare at Bronn who, although couldn't hear any of this conversation, nodded his head slowly.

"Yeah," Sandor conceded finally with a firm brusqueness to his voice. "2pm. I can be there by 2. I'll have some of my men with me. You can hold off on bringing your own men."

Sandor couldn't know the full extent of what he was getting himself into, but he knew well enough to know that getting involved with the Kings, regardless of how loosely it may be, was a bad idea. The Italian mafia and thuggish gang bangers mixed like oil and water. They were at two different levels of the organized crime hierarchy. Just like anything else, the individuals who existed near the bottom rungs tended to have a chip on their shoulder in regards to the ones who reigned on top.

"Aight, my man. I'd have your 9's with you," Damian warned into the phone, a ridiculous warning that so obviously went without saying, but nonetheless brought an amused smile to form on Sandor's lips. "I don't think I have to tell you that he's on edge. Meet me at Café Villa Borghese at 2 and we'll work this shit out."

Without another word, Sandor heard a click on the other end of the line as Damian hung up. Slowly, Sandor pulled the phone away from his ear and flipped it closed before handing it back to Bronn who was staring at him with puzzled eyes.

"We're going on a little road trip tomorrow," Sandor intoned matter-of-factly as he sat back in his seat, the gravity of what was going to happen tomorrow settling heavily into his core. Silence fell between him and Bronn as the breeze swayed suddenly through the trees and a group of birds hidden amongst the branches squawked from above. Shifting his stare towards the sound, Sandor could see them perched in the trees, black feathers and beady eyes peering out through the branches.

"What about the girls?," Bronn questioned as he ran his fingers through his hair. He already knew what was going down, had been privy to it all along and had been in continual contact with Damian while Sandor was holed up here with Sansa.

"Vincenzo and his crew aren't far from here," Sandor replied. "Half of his men can come with us and the other half can stay here with Mirabelle and Sansa. I'll make the call to Vinny."

Bronn shrugged his shoulders and nodded his head. Sandor fought to quiet the nagging voice within him; the one that chided him into thinking that maybe even with Vinny's men, it still wouldn't be enough. If Bronn shared in Sandor's doubts, he held onto them for now and for that Sandor was grateful.

"Well," Sandor spoke as he pushed himself from the table and stood slowly. "Sounds like we have some phone calls to make. Best do it before the girls get back."

Following Sandor's lead, Bronn stood up and shifted his stare towards the expanse of the back yard before nodding his head in agreement.

"Nothing like some mob bullshit to ruin a birthday party. Or anything for that matter," he japed and although both men exchanged a laugh, they knew too well the solemn truth of those words.

* * *

By the time Sansa had showered off the bits of sand plastered to her skin and slipped into the dress Mirabelle had given to her as yet another gift, the sun was setting towards the west, illuminating the expanse of the backyard with golden tones as a bright pink orb hovered near the horizon.  _A Malibu sun,_ as her mother called it. Sansa stopped dead in her tracks then as she turned to retreat back towards the kitchen to help Mirabelle prepare dinner.  _Mom. Catelyn. Mother._ A lump suddenly formed in her throat. Sucking in a deep breath, Sansa closed her eyes and swallowed past the lump, resolving herself not to cry. Not now at least.

Sansa now slipped into a bright smile, something she had learned how to do quite some time ago. She hated when people saw her cry, had become tired of them always thinking she was weak because of it. And so she had gotten used to smiling through heartbreak, frustration, and pain and would only release her tears when she was sure others weren't looking and could not hear her. Steeling herself, Sansa did it once more as she chatted with Mirabelle while tossing a salad. By the time she was pulling roasted potatoes out the oven, the lump had dissolved away and her smile was no longer feigned.

When the sun had all but retreated past the horizon, the night had grown comfortably cool and perfect for dining al fresco. Mirabelle had decorated the center of the table with an array of candles; short candles, tall candles, tea candles, scented ones, unscented ones, whatever she could find in the Moriarti mansion because she knew Sandor wouldn't have candles. After she had finished and the table was set, it held a sort of bohemian charm to it, elegantly mismatched as it was. Sansa adored it and felt another genuine smile creep across her lips as she helped carry the food out to the table.

After the pork roast had come out of the oven and was set at the table, Mirabelle called the boys out. They had been up in Sandor's office, something about making a few phone calls. Sansa had felt the curiosity bubble up in her then. She had almost asked Sandor more to quell the curiosity than anything, but she followed Mirabelle's lead and asked nothing as Bronn and Sandor retreated to take care of whatever it was that couldn't wait. Mirabelle had leaned towards her then, keeping her voice low.  _'See, much easier if you don't ask questions. You can make up whatever you want in your head. Hell, he could be calling a psychic hotline if that's what you want him to be doing right now.'_

Sansa had laughed then; not because she found it particularly funny, but because she didn't quite know what to think. The fact still remained that she was beginning to think she was the kind of woman that would need to know everything. Lying to herself that Sandor Clegane was on the phone with Miss Cleo right now seemed wrong to her. Now the only question was could she handle the answer he gave her, if he told her truly. Sansa wasn't quite sure so she resolved herself to not know a thing for now and rather focus on the night ahead.

Mirabelle and Sansa were already seated at the table when the boys joined them, each sporting a hardened scowl and remaining utterly quiet as they lowered themselves to their seats; Sandor next to her and Bronn seated next to Mirabelle who had seemed to go quiet as well. Slamming a bottle of whiskey down on the table, Bronn stared across towards Sandor who replied by leaning forward and pushing his glass around the candle center piece until it was in front of the whiskey bottle.

By the time both men had worked through two half-glasses full of the amber liquid, they had loosened up considerably and whatever tensions had sprouted up from their mysterious phone calls seemed to have been eased away with each gulp of whiskey. From there, the conversation was light, the mood jovial, and the air filled with laughter as they all enjoyed the food and each other's company.

After woofing down his meal, Bronn suddenly jumped from his seat, retreating inside without a word. When he remerged, he had a bottle in his hand and a million-watt grin on his face, undoubtedly perpetuated by the alcohol. When he sat back down, Bronn handed the bottle to Sansa, leaning towards her until he was uncomfortably occupying her personal space, also undoubtedly perpetuated by the alcohol.

"My gift to you. The gift of getting you intoxicated for my man here," Bronn triumphantly declared before setting a mischievous stare across the table in Sandor's direction. Mirabelle and Sandor responded in unison by planting their faces firmly in the palm of their hand. Taking the bottle from Bronn with a polite smile, Sansa felt her mouth hang open as she searched for the words, too scandalized to even mutter a proper 'thank you.'

"Sansa, I'm joking!," Bronn cut in with a howl of laughter before giving her a hearty pat on the back, one that was a bit harder than he probably intended. Again, she chocked it up to the alcohol running through his system. "It's a good wine though. A Semillon. 2001. Sweet and lush, just like you."

To her left, Sansa could see Sandor shaking his head in the periphery of her vision while Mirabelle gave a swift swat to Bronn's arm.

"Bronn, lay off the creepy! Jesus christ," she chided through a laugh as she once again mimicked her brother's movements and shook her head. "Sorry Sansa," she apologized from across the table.

"Oh calm down! I'm just kidding," Bronn cried out as he snatched up the whiskey bottle and poured himself another glass. Reaching across the table with the bottle, Bronn tried to refill Sandor's, but was stopped as Sandor covered his glass with his hand and shook his head.

"Thank you," Sansa finally managed as her eyes roved over the wine label, not quite certain what to make of his gift, but grateful nonetheless.

"Happy birthday, doll." His smile was genuine this time, not creepy in the least and for once Sansa felt as though she was finally managing to wrap her head around his humor, which apparently favored making people feel as uncomfortable as possible. All in good fun though, she suspected.

Taking the wine bottle gently from her hands, Bronn placed it on the table and set about opening it, apparently resolute to let it serve his previously stated purpose as he began pouring a glass for Sansa and Mirabelle too.

"Have you heard the story of how Sandor and I met?," Bronn asked as he handed Sansa her wine glass and encouraged her to drink with a nod. Although his eyes remained on Sandor, Sansa knew the question was directed towards her.

Sansa shifted a glance towards Sandor, who was settling back in his seat, fighting a smile that was forcing itself across his lips and shaking his head as he exhaled a small laugh. If his body language was anything to go by, this was one heck of a story.

"No, I haven't had the pleasure," Sansa replied shyly as she took an exploratory sip of the wine she had been given. True enough, it was sweet and rich with the flavor of berries.

Smiling wide once more, Bronn cleared his throat as he began, his hands moving through the air as he animated every other word it seemed.

"It all started one day when I was sent on an assignment. Mind you, this is when Alberto was still in charge. I get my directions. I know where I'm supposed to be. I know what I'm supposed to be doing. And I know I'm supposed to be going on this assignment with a new guy, a young Turk I'm told. A young Turk is a non-traditional made man. Usually some hot shot."

Sansa giggled as Bronn pointed a finger across the table towards Sandor, feigning discretion.

"This was a long time ago, Sansa," Sandor cut in with a knowing smile gracing his lips. Sansa felt herself smile as well before taking another graceful sip of wine and letting the sweet liquid swirl on her tongue.

"I show up to meet the new guy I'm supposed to be handling this assignment with," Bronn continued, his voice booming through the night. "A few other men are with me and we've got some time to kill. We open a few beers, start bullshiting with one another, and I'm having a great time."

"You were drunk," Sandor broke in once more, his voice matter-of-fact yet tinged with amusement nonetheless.

"First of all, no," Bronn replied, leaning forward and pointing a finger at Sandor. "Second, that's beside the point."

From the periphery of her vision, Sansa could see Sandor lean towards her.

"He was shit faced," Sandor rasped beneath his breath although Bronn, probably shit-faced in this particular moment, couldn't have heard. Sweeping her gaze towards him, Sansa found Sandor's eyes were already on her, stealing the sight of her it seemed. She wished he could kiss her and felt a blush spread across her cheeks at the thought. It hadn't even been a full 12 hours since the last time he kissed her, but still she missed his lips and, by the way he was looking at her now, she gathered he felt the same.

As Bronn's voice broke her musings, Sansa shifted her eyes back towards him and watched with a sense of glee as he continued on.

"Anyway, I'm telling my men a story and I've got them laughing. We're having a grand time until  _this one_ walks in." Once more, Bronn pointed towards Sandor, a gesture which elicited laughter from all seated at the table.

"He comes in and it's like the fucking plague comes with him. He's serious, got this scowl on his face like he hates the world and everyone in it. Everyone gets real quiet with ' _oh shit_ ' looks on their faces. I say to myself, ' _Well fuck. This man needs a drink_ ' and so I offer him a drink. I tell him to help himself. He sits himself down and stares at me, dead in the eye. To look at him then, I knew Sandor was probably barely pushing 20."

"I was 20, Bronn," Sandor corrected, his subtle amusement starkly contrasting Bronn's exaggerated exuberance.

"Makes no difference, you were young," Bronn retorted with a devilish grin, swaying slightly within his seat.

"And you were drunk and annoying the fuck out of me," Sandor shot back at him without missing a beat as he exhaled a laugh.

Sansa released a giggle, although she wasn't quite sure what she was laughing at. Pulling another sip on the wine, she listened intently, enjoying the playful banter that was passing back and forth between Bronn and Sandor. Glancing across the table, Sansa noticed, even in the candlelight, that Mirabelle's cheeks were flushed as she cast a dreamy gaze at Bronn who continued on with his story.

"So there he is. He's staring me down and I'm thinking to myself ' _I'm not about to let some kid who was made yesterday intimidate me._ ' So I stare him down too. And finally he speaks and you know what the smartass said to me?"

Although Bronn's question was posed to no one in particular, Sansa replied anyway.

"No," she stated flatly. From across the table, Mirabelle erupted into giggles, snorting as she choked on a sip of her wine.

"Bronn, you don't remember what I said to you," Sandor declared through a hearty laugh, clearly amused at the spectacle of his sister cracking up next to him.

"No, I do! I do," Bronn cried out, his voice bellowing loud in Sansa's ear. "You looked at me and said, dead panned and without batting an eye, ' _You think you're a hard man._ '" Lowering his voice, Bronn did his best to intimidate Sandor in both seriousness and the deep, resonating timbre Sandor possessed.

"And do you remember what you said back to me?," Sandor inquired of Bronn, slapping his hand against the table and sending a fork to go flying off, which sent Mirabelle into another fit of giggles. This time Sansa joined in, her head feeling flushed and the corners of her mouth sore from all the smiling she hadn't noticed she'd been doing.

"That I do!," Bronn hollered, jumping up from his seat suddenly and swaying in place where he stood. "I stared straight at you and I laughed in your face. ' _Oh I know I am.'_ That's exactly what I said. Ain't that right?"

"Yeah. That's right," Sandor confirmed with a nod of his head and a smug smile. Lifting her eyes to Sandor, Sansa felt herself staring. The part of her that knew that to be rude scolded her and told her to stop. The part of her that found him so incredibly handsome right now forced her gaze to remain. It wasn't until Sandor let his eyes flicker to her in return that Sansa felt as though her heart might beat out of her chest.

Flustered, she looked away and reached for her wine glass, pulling the small amount of the liquid that was left into her mouth and feeling the subtle warmth move down her throat as she swallowed it.  _Damn. Way to be a creep, Sansa._

"And he thought I was drunk through this whole thing," Bronn smirked as he fell back into his seat in one sloppy motion. "Anyway, Sandor stands up all slow and dramatic and then goes on to give this big, bad, profane lecture about I don't even remember what. I may have been a little buzzed through that, I'll admit."

"I was simply pointing out that you and the men thought you were real hard asses because you could drink each other under the table and I just thought that you might take going out in the field a bit more seriously," Sandor replied calmly, his voice deep and smooth to Sansa's ears. Relishing the sound, she hadn't noticed that Bronn had discreetly filled her glass half full with wine and was doing the same with Mirabelle's.

"You see, you say it all nice and polite now. Ten years ago, that speech didn't sound so nice. Anyway, we go out on this assignment. We were supposed to talk to this guy who Moriarti had lent money to. He was dodging us so we went to give him the business. Well, he knew we were coming and wasn't going down without a fight so we got into a rumble.

I'm busy taking down a few guys, the men to either side of me are hit and injured, and I look over and there's Sandor. After giving this speech about how much of a badass he is, the guy is frozen in place. Scared shitless."

Sansa watched as Sandor shifted towards the front of his seat and pointed an accusatory finger at Bronn.

"That's not quite how it went, Bronn. There was fire involved."

Relenting with a shrug of his shoulders, Bronn settled back in his seat and continued on. Almost in automatic motion, Sansa reached for her wine glass, swaying slightly. She knew she shouldn't. She had never really drank much before, save the occasional glass of wine her mother would let her have during Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner at her Grandmother's house. Still, that was hardly enough to build up any sort of tolerance. However, she was happy in this moment, truly happy, and if she searched herself she knew it had little to do with the wine. She felt relaxed, content,  _cared for._

"Either way, he's cornered on one side by fire and the other by a guy with a gun," Bronn continued, calming a bit with his eyes now heavily lidded. "To see the look on Sandor's face, he must've thought he was going to die. I snipe the guy who's holding a gun to him and by then the rest of the threat has been put down. So we're standing there and I've just saved his life and this is what he does." Bronn interrupted himself with a long pause functioning probably for dramatic effect, but also allowing him to gather his words, which were becoming more slurred by the moment. "Without a word, he walks past me with that same pissed off scowl. I'm standing there thinking ' _What the fuck! I just saved your life. A thank you would be nice_.'"

"That's…no," Sandor disagreed with a laugh as he shook his head. "You were being a smug asshole about it, standing there smiling at me."

"Probably, but you were being a prick," Bronn shot back on a deep sigh as he pushed his whiskey glass away from him, apparently done with the drink for now.

"Touche," Sandor rasped.

The table had fallen into a cadence of silence; Bronn's eyelids growing heavier by the moment, Mirabelle with a perpetual smile of bliss on her face, and Sandor mindlessly folding his napkin on the table.

"So how did you become friends then?," Sansa finally spoke, blinking away the blurriness that had emerged in the periphery of her vision.

"Well," Bronn spoke up, his voice considerably quieter than it had been all night. "Sandor eventually grew out of his Johnny hard ass attitude some and became a bit more bearable, eventually thanked me for saving him. Granted, it was a few years after the fact, but I accepted it anyway and he finally took me up on the beer I had offered him. We bullshited and I actually got him to laugh. It sounded like a growl, you know, because his voice is so deep so I started calling him the Hound and surprisingly that stuck."

Sandor slowly nodded his head, his eyes downcast towards the table as a small smile crept across his lips, but then seemed to fade away.

"Thick as thieves since then," Mirabelle added, her voice rousing Sansa as the woman had hardly spoken a word. Leaning forward, she caught Sansa's eyes in a glassy stare. "I've heard this story a million times. You'll hear it a million times too. It changes every time, depending on which one of these two is telling it and how drunk they are."

"Well, at least I'll never hear the same version twice," Sansa replied softly before taking a sip of water in perhaps a futile effort to dilute the effects of the wine which were making her head spin a bit.

Mirabelle lifted her glass to that and drank down the rest of her wine, dredges and all. Another satisfied silence blanketed the table until Bronn retreated into the house once more and remerged with a cylindrical Tupperware container.

"Sansa, Mirabelle and I made something for you," he declared as he sat the container down in front of Sansa.

"What is it?," she queried as she stared blankly at it before lifting her eyes to Bronn standing over her.

"We hear you like lemons," he offered as a response as he pulled off the top of container. "So it's a cake full of them. A lemon cake."

"You helped make this?," Sandor asked disbelievingly, motioning towards the cake with a nod of his head.

"He retrieved ingredients from the pantry, if you consider that helping," Mirabelle giggled from across the table as she rolled her eyes.

"That's very nice of you, Bronn. Thank you," Sansa spoke as she shifted her eyes between Mirabelle and Bronn who had exchanged knowing looks with one another.

Reaching over her, Bronn retrieved a tapered candle from the center of the table and placed it in the middle of the cake.

"Now these two don't like to sing so allow me." At that, Bronn lowered himself to his knees next to Sansa's chair and snatched one of her hands up in his.

Tilting his head back, Bronn serenaded Sansa with the loudest and most exaggerated rendition of  _Happy Birthday_ she had ever heard. By the end of it, Sansa and Mirabelle were in hysterics. Sandor had given a chuckle here and there whilst shaking his head, ever maintaining his façade of cool, calm collectedness.

Bronn proudly soaked up the accolades as Mirabelle and Sansa offered him a round of applause, to which he politely bowed before easing himself back into his seat. Sansa saw from the corner of her eye as Sandor turned towards. Instinctively, her eyes found his and noticed a half smile had pulled across his lips.

"Happy birthday, little bird," he rasped, loud enough for her to hear, but perhaps the others hadn't noticed.

At that, Sandor draped his arm across the back of her chair, the bare skin of his forearm pressed against the skin of her back and the connection sending tingles through her body. Sansa felt his thumb gently and slowly brush her back, such a simple gesture of affection, but entirely successful at sending a sweeping smile to break across her lips. Lifting her eyes across the table, Mirabelle seemed to have noticed, her gaze shifting approvingly between her brother and Sansa. When her eyes landed back to Sansa, Mirabelle gave a wink and a smile.

The cake was cut, the conversation continued, and the effects of wine seemed to wear off a bit as another hush fell over the table. This time it was Bronn who broke the silence as he swiveled in his seat and turned towards Sansa.

"I hear you're something of a chanteuse," he asserted rather than inquired. After all, he had been the one to hand Sandor a manila folder which outlined the events of her life the night she had sat petrified in the alcove of the Moriarti mansion basement. Sansa marveled at how  _very_ long ago that seemed.

 _Chanteuse._ Biting her bottom lip, Sansa filed through the memories until she found the word, a word she had often heard her mother use to describe Stevie Nicks.  _Chanteuse._ A songstress in gossamer. Suddenly and without even the courtesy of a warning, Sansa's mind recalled vivid visions of her mother swaying to the sound of  _"Rhiannon"_ playing in the background as she washed dishes in the kitchen. Her mother had loved Stevie Nicks and house choirs were often done to the sound of that woman's ethereal voice carried throughout the house. Peeking around corners, Sansa would watch her mother sway and recognized then, even as a child, how  _beautiful_ her mother was.

It was just a memory and probably one of many more she would have in her lifetime. The difference was that this memory held with it an understanding Sansa had only now, in this most inconvenient of moments, fully come to terms with. It was the finality of death, the heaviness of loss that had finally pressed its full weight on top of her, the sudden realization that she would never again watch her mother wash dishes and sing along to Stevie Nicks. It was something so simple, trivial even, and yet utterly heart wrenching.

"Sansa?," Mirabelle broke in, shifting towards the front of her seat as her brow folded in worry.

"Yeah, I can sing," she finally managed on a tremulous whisper, her eyes downcast because she wasn't quite sure if she could slip into a feigned smile now.

"Well, maybe one day you'll give us a song," Bronn replied, his words soft and so obviously meant to comfort even though he couldn't possibly know what had settled so heavily against her heart in this moment.

Pushing herself from the table, Mirabelle grabbed up handfuls of dishes and slowly made her way to the sliding glass door. Setting her eyes on Bronn, she motioned towards the door with a nod.

"Come on, Bronn. Let's give them a moment together. You can help me with the dishes."

As Mirabelle and Bronn retreated inside, Sansa could tell Sandor was watching her although there was nothing intrusive about his stare. Rather, it beckoned warmth to spread through her trembling limbs.

"I know it's hard, Sansa," he spoke when she finally lifted her eyes to him, exposing something of herself she had, until this moment, kept so private and hidden. Sandor kept her stare, holding her eyes to his and she could not look away. Once more, she did not find his eyes brooding nor invasive. Instead, his stare was offered to her as a show of strength.  _'I'll be strong for you when you cannot be strong for yourself,'_ he seemed to say without even speaking. Turning his chair to face her, Sandor took her hands in his.

"I have something for you," he started on a voice deepened by austerity, his lips creased together dolefully, his countenance marked by a sudden somber gravity. If it wasn't her birthday, Sansa would have imagined Sandor was working himself up to offer her some bit of terrible news. And then it struck her; he was nervous. More nervous than she had ever seen him. Despite his best efforts, his hands shook ever so slightly and she had half a mind to think it was because of her or perhaps what he was about to offer her.

With a deep sigh and his eyes casting a fleeting glance towards her, Sandor leaned to his side and reached beneath his seat. His black hair had fallen across the side of his face as he leaned over, obscuring her vision of his downcast stare. When he sat back up, Sandor placed a rectangular, black box on the table and brushed the hair away from his face. Slowly, he slid the box across the table and in front of Sansa before settling back in his seat, his hands now firmly pressed against the tops of his thighs with his fingers splayed open.

Settling her eyes on him, Sansa felt her mouth pull into a gentle and unbidden smile. A gift from him was unexpected. In fact, most of the afternoon and evening was more than she had ever thought to imagine for her birthday spent down in the Underworld, the rabbit hole. In a sober bit of self-honesty, Sansa realized now that on more than one occasion in the past two weeks she hadn't expected to live to see her 18th birthday. And now here Sandor was, offering her a gift and staring back at her with a bead of sweat forming on his brow and his hands plastered to his legs lest they shake with nervousness. With a silent nod, Sandor motioned towards the box, urging her to open it.

Running her fingers over the box, Sansa could feel that it was wood; wood that had been painted black with gold ivy leaves and flowers decoratively adorning each side. As she lifted the lid open, Sansa's breath caught in her chest as her eyes looked down to find a necklace tucked delicately amongst ivory satin lining the inside of the box.

Lifting the necklace from the box, Sansa realized the chain and a granulated edge of the center pendant had acquired a patina with time, the dullness lending beautifully to the transparent tear drop-shaped stone centerpiece. A dark purple faceted stone, which Sansa knew immediately to be amethyst, hung from the chain and was set in an intricate silver frame, also tarnished with time.

Sansa held the necklace up, letting the chain drape around her fingers as she let the stone catch the flickering candlelight. It was nearly perfectly transparent, the light pouring through filtered in brilliant hues of reddish-purples.

"It was my mother's," Sandor explained as he shifted in his seat, some of the tension in his body dissolving away as he watched Sansa admiring the necklace. "And my grandmother's before that," he added quietly.

Now it was Sansa's face that hardened with austerity, her smile had melted away, her body tensing and it was not for want of joy.

"It's beautiful. Better than that, it's amazing," Sansa marveled on a quivering breath before setting her eyes on Sandor. Leaning forward, he turned the pendant so that the back side was facing her.

"You can see the maker's mark. My grandmother got it from an artisan in Tuscany. It was the rarest amethyst he had at the time. You can tell by the transparency, the dark purple tones."

Sansa lifted the back of the stone and settled it against the tips of her fingers, scrutinizing the insignia she saw engraved against the side of the silver frame. She knew not how long she had been staring at the necklace, letting the stone catch the light in different ways, and imagining what Sandor's mother and grandmother looked like wearing this very necklace, what they were like when they were alive, and most of all, if they would approve of her having a family heirloom.

"Do you like it?," Sandor interrupted on a deep sigh, his voice fractured with concern as he wiped the palms of his hands over the tops of his legs.

"I love it," Sansa quavered as she met his eyes. "It's perfect, but that's just the thing. Should Mirabelle have this if it was your mother's and her mother's before her?"

Sandor remained quiet for what felt like an eternity and Sansa was beginning to curse herself for potentially offending him after he had offered something that meant so much to him and his family.

"Mirabelle and I both agree that you should have it," Sandor assured finally, his eyes resolute and speaking to her once more. The story they told was one of truth and finality.

"I just don't want to take something that your mother would have wanted Mirabelle to have," Sansa explained, her voice trailing off in a whisper. She couldn't imagine someone taking something that belonged to her mother and was intended for her. Only then did Sansa come to realize how  _very_ special this necklace was. Sansa had lost her family, the only family she had ever known, and now with this necklace, it was as if she were being welcomed as a part of Sandor's family, the only family he had left.

"Mirabelle is crazy about you, you already know that. If my mother were still around, she'd be crazy about you too. I'm…I want you to have it." Flustered, Sandor seemed to catch himself on his own words as he nervously cleared his throat.

With her vision faceted by the emergence of small tears, Sansa slipped from her chair and stood before Sandor, wrapping her arms around his neck as she clutched the necklace in her trembling hand.

"No one's ever given me something like this before. It's perfect," she whispered into the embrace. When she pulled away, Sandor carefully took the necklace from her hand and, with somewhat clumsy fingers, unclasped it and fitted it around Sansa's neck.

Gazing down, Sansa admired the jewel resting against her chest. It was truly a work of art and beyond that held with it the depth of feeling and genuineness of affection Sandor had faltered at putting into words only moments earlier. Lifting her eyes to him now, Sansa saw he was staring at her already, a relieved smile pulling at his lips.

"Thank you," Sansa smiled back at him, her fingers still magnetized to the gem around her neck.

Standing up, Sandor took one of Sansa's hands into his own and began leading her across the deck towards the wrap-around portion which led to the French doors of his bedroom.

"Let's go," he coaxed with a knowing smile coloring his face.

"What about Mirabelle and Bronn? Shouldn't we join them?," Sansa asked as she followed behind Sandor, lifting her eyes to admire how very  _tall_ he was.

Turning his head over his shoulder as he led her into his bedroom, Sansa could see that Sandor's eyes were lustrous and dark, like gems in their own right as they seemed to glisten in the faintness of light.

"They'll do just fine on their own. I've exceeded my threshold of sharing you with other people," he rasped mischievously as he scooped her up in his arms, carrying her towards the bed. "You're mine for the rest of the night," he declared as he tossed her to the bed, not ungently, and slowly climbed on top of her.

Emboldened by the lingering effects of wine, Sansa slinked her arms around Sandor's neck and pulled him abruptly into a kiss, her lips eager to be pressed against his. Sandor slowly eased himself down on top of Sansa, his fingers moving deftly across the curve of her hips and waist as he deepened the kiss with his tongue sweeping warm against her lips.

Every movement of his hands, firm and strong against her body, every rock of his hips into her with a slow, sensuous rhythm, every kiss placed hungrily against her lips felt amplified somehow. The sensations electric and fluid, reaching corners of her body she hadn't known could ever feel so good. Her head seemed to swim, her toes curled, her eyelids fluttered closed, her lips parted to release soft moans, and Sansa abruptly pushed herself up. Sandor's eyes snapped open in surprise, but immediately softened to pleasant shock as Sansa gently pushed him to the bed and lowered herself on top of him. Straddling him with one leg on either side, Sansa lingeringly ran her fingers up and down his chest, watching with a devilish smile on her lips as Sandor gripped her hips and bit his lip hard.

Spurred on by her boldness, Sandor's hands roamed up her bare thighs, his fingers brushing against the lace lining at the top of her panties. Suddenly, Sansa stiffened on top of him, her eyes growing wide and her cheeks becoming flushed. She wanted him to touch her, but Sandor stopped, his hands freezing where they were as a he stared up at her earnestly.

"We don't have to do anything you don't want to do," Sandor intoned with concern growing in his eyes, steadily replacing the lust that had been there.

"I know that, but…I want…" With her mind abuzz, Sansa could hardly manage to find the words. Shifting her eyes downwards, she bit her lip and sought out what exactly she was trying to say.

Seemingly understanding something of her confusion and hesitance, Sandor sat up and pressed his lips to hers in a soft kiss before pulling away ever so slightly.

"Tell me what you want," he whispered commandingly, his mouth hovering above hers close enough that she could feel his lips brush across hers as he spoke. Sansa relished the sensation, the ripple of tingles it sent through her body, the way he seemed to tease her with his lips, and the way his fingers had found their way to the neckline of her dress. As they moved beneath the hem and brushed against the bare skin of her breasts, Sansa let out a shaky breath.

"You can…I want you to…" Once more she fell short. Her body, mind, and heart all wanted the same thing yet when it came to requesting that want, they all seemed to speak different languages. Sansa sighed dually in frustration and in the pleasure at the way Sandor was sweeping his fingers over her nipples.

"You want me to touch you," Sandor groaned on a husky voice. It was hardly a question. Sansa imagined he already knew that's what she wanted; her eyes fluttered opened and closed each time his fingers brushed against her nipples, her lips parted as she moaned gently against his mouth still hovering achingly close to hers.

Sansa pulled in a deep breath to calm herself before releasing it and looking up towards Sandor. His body was flush against hers, his warmth seeping in towards her skin, his hair falling down his shoulder. Cocking his head to the side, his eyes met hers and she found a gentleness there. A slight smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he watched mesmerized at her reaction with each pass over her hardened nipples.

"You want me to touch you here?" With his fingers still sweeping gently over her breasts, Sandor allowed his thumb to explore the fullness, his eyes watching her attentively with wonderment. Running his other hand down her back, Sandor clutched the firmness of her bottom, guiding her rocking movements against his stiff manhood until she was grinding in a rhythm that now elicited deep groans from his lips.

Sansa let out a soft mewling sound as she felt the sensitive area between her legs pressing firmly against him. She nodded her head slowly. She wanted him to touch her there and she wanted him to touch her everywhere, especially if it could feel this good.

Slowly, Sansa felt the fingers from his hand retreat from her breast and move down her stomach. Trailing past her middle, Sandor's fingers disappeared under the skirt of her dress to gently caress between her legs. It was only one swipe of his fingers across the outside of her panties over where the wetness had pooled and yet Sansa couldn't help the gasp that escaped her lips at the jolt it elicited.

"And you want me to touch you here?," Sandor whispered with a satisfied smile flashing across his lips.

She felt as though her heart was about to beat right out of her chest, her skin burning with heat. Sansa slowly nodded her head, her eyes glued to Sandor and unwilling to let go of all the reassurance and intensity she found there. With his smile fading now, Sansa heard as he gave a breathy sigh, one which seemed to communicate how badly he wanted to touch her there and everywhere. As he bit his bottom lip, Sansa could feel the vibrations resonating from his chest as he gave an ' _mmm'_ sound.

Finally after taunting her for so long, Sandor closed the miniscule gap of space between their lips as he commenced a kiss, initiated as his tongue flicked against her lips and bid them to part for him. Sansa eagerly obliged as she felt him deepen the kiss with some fervor, his mouth hot against hers.

Without breaking the kiss or losing any momentum of desire, Sandor lowered her down slowly to the bed until he was on top of her, his weight supported on one arm which was resting against her left side. Sansa allowed her legs to wrap around his waist as she continued the rhythm he had established, moving her hips in circles against his hardness still between her legs.

Reaching back with one hand, Sandor slowly traced the length of her leg. His palm pressed against her calf and worked in a smooth motion towards her knee before gradually and deliberately moving down the outside of her thigh. Pulling away from the kiss, panting and with his lips swollen, Sandor shifted his gaze down to his hand resting at the junction between her thigh and hip. Sansa unwrapped her legs from around him and planted her feet firmly against the bed. With dawdling movements, Sandor's finger delicately pushed up the skirt of Sansa's dress until it was bunched at her waist. Laying there beneath him, she felt a wave of anticipation sweep throughout her body. Sandor moved his fingers now from her dress, down her stomach, across the top of her panties, and towards her inner thighs.

With the pad of his thumb, he gave a gentle swipe against the outside of her underwear and right at the sensitive spot between her legs, the spot she knew with a certainty was saturated with her wetness. Once more, Sandor watched and waited for Sansa to exhale a shaky breath through parted lips as another jolt shuddered through her body. A few more times he did this, each time listening for her soft gasps and pleasured moans, his eyes flooding with what looked to her like an insatiable hunger each time.

Eyes dark with lascivious want, Sandor hooked two fingers from either hand underneath her underwear at the sides of her hips. Hesitating, he kept his stare on Sansa and waited until she gently nodded her head, giving him all the approval he needed.

Sansa felt him pull her underwear from underneath her and watched as the bright pink fabric moved down her thighs and over her knees. Sandor scooted back some, pulling her underwear over the remaining length of her legs before tossing it to the floor by the bed.

Sansa could feel the coolness of the air against the wetness between her legs and demurely pressed her knees together as she realized Sandor was staring at her, his eyes roving over her nakedness displayed before him. A part of her felt exposed and embarrassed, that perhaps there was something much more intimate about him  _seeing_ her and not just touching her. A bigger part of Sansa wanted him to see her and longed for that intimacy, that show of trust.

Letting her eyes flutter closed and pulling in a deep breath, Sansa let the tension go in her legs and slowly parted her knees. She didn't need to open her eyes to know he was looking at her, seeing her, being driven wild by all she was exposing to him. Sansa could hear his heavy breaths and feel as he began crawling towards her on the bed.

When she finally opened her eyes, Sandor had lowered himself next to her, turned on one side and with his head resting in his hand and his elbow propped against the mattress.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he avowed suddenly, his voice deep and dark, as he caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers.

Sandor devoured her lips in a kiss, a kiss she smiled into as her heart fluttered suddenly at his words.

"I've never told you that before, have I?," Sandor asked as he pulled away at feeling her smile. Sansa shook her head, but was stopped as his lips met hers again.

"Well, you are," he rasped as his hand trailed down her body, stopping at her nakedness.

"Thank you," Sansa whispered, reaching up towards him and wrapping her arms around his neck.

Sandor exhaled a small chuckle before running his hand up her inner thigh. Lowering his lips to her neck, Sandor traced kisses there, his tongue like fire against her skin, as his middle finger brushed against the crease of her lower lips.

As his tongue flicked against her neck, Sandor's finger slipped between her folds and he gave a deep, reverberated groan as he seemed to find the wetness she knew all along would be there.

"Fuck, Sansa. Are you always this wet for me?," he rasped into her ear before his lips retreated back down her neck with eager kisses.

Sansa felt a wave of heat hit her cheeks as she blushed, wondering if he really wanted to know the answer to that question.

It didn't matter because she felt herself become rendered incoherent as Sandor slowly circled two fingers now between her folds, relishing the renewed flush of wetness as Sansa began to writhe subtly beneath his touch.

Sansa felt her breaths coming ragged from her lips which were now perpetually parted as her head fell back against the pillow, her eyes fluttering open and closed. As Sandor's fingers worked in even circles over her swollen clit, each pass sent a jolt through Sansa's body and beckoned her knees to fall further away from one another. Squeezing her eyes shut now, Sansa rocked against Sandor's hand, seeking out his touch at that delicate spot as his fingers teased her opening.

Finally he obliged, brushing against that spot aching for his touch, and Sansa gasped out her ecstasy, her mouth falling open and Sandor taking the opportunity to seek out her lips as his tongue worked with the same devouring urgency as his fingers.

Sansa let out a whimpering murmur as she felt him slip one finger slowly into her and began stroking her in lingering movements, his thumb still flicking against her pulsing clit. The sensations hit Sansa in waves of pleasure, her body arching into him with each pass and her moans singing louder from her lips still covered by his kiss.

She wanted more, god she wanted more, and so riding a wave of blinding pleasure, reached down towards his hand. She wanted to know how wet he made her, wanted desperately to feel him as he slid in and out of her, wanted to guide his movements which were so close to making her burst with euphoria.

Sansa's eyes snapped open as she suddenly felt Sandor pull his hand away, the absence of his touch forcing a whimper to replace the breathy cries of pleasure she had given only seconds earlier.

Worried she had done something wrong, Sansa sought out Sandor's eyes and found, if anything, he was staring at her with a renewed wave of lustfulness flashing wildly in his eyes.

"Show me how you touch yourself," he urged on a voice deep as he gently caressed the curve of her hips and waist.

"You want…me…," Sansa stammered although her hand was still between her legs, but her movements frozen in place at the sudden realization of what he was asking her to do. She felt the heat immediately hit her cheeks and couldn't help, but let her eyes, wide with bewilderment, fall away from him.

Shifting towards her, Sandor pressed a soft kiss to her lips, something she suspected was meant to reassure her.

"I want to watch you," he whispered between kisses, his hand covering hers and guiding her towards the very spot where he had driven her wild. Proctoring her movements, Sandor brought her fingers up to her clit, trailing through her hot wetness on the way. Eventually his hand gradually moved away until it was only her fingers moving. Sansa closed her eyes, her fingers sliding over the same spot until she worked up the courage to let two fingers slip inside, stroking the heat within, but not quite able to reach the same perfect spot that Sandor had.

Opening her eyes, Sansa could almost feel the heat emanating off of Sandor; his chest heaving with each breath, his eyes devouring her whole with a primal sort of yearning desire, and his hands deftly working at the button and zipper of his pants.

Sansa barely glimpsed his member as Sandor immediately took his shaft in hand and began stroking in firm, rhythmic movements. His eyes continually roved up and down her body, stopping at her fingers sliding in and out of her wetness before trailing back up to find her lips parting with each moan as she held his stare. With each frenzied burst of ecstasy, Sansa felt herself becoming emboldened; the act of showing him how she wanted him to touch her, to bring her to her climax no longer embarrassing, but empowering. She was driving him wild. With each circuit of his eyes over her, Sandor's movements up and down his cock were becoming faster and harder and were now accompanied by deep, guttural grunts and groans, his lips quivering with each ragged exhale of breath.

When his eyes matcher hers once more, Sansa kept his stare, watching him with anticipation and delight as his name meandered off her lips with a mewling sigh.

At that, the visual teasing of one another was abruptly stopped as Sandor reached out and pulled Sansa towards him with a solid yank, devouring her lips in a demanding and desperate kiss. She had only enough time to pull her hand away before Sandor had slid two fingers into her, fervently moving in and out of her and mimicking all the movements he had seen.

"Put your hands on me, Sansa," he groaned before reaching for her hand, her fingers dripping with her own wetness.

Following his lead, she tried to remain coherent as Sandor worked between her legs. Sansa wrapped her fingers around his shaft, unable to encircle him entirely. Mimicking the movements she had seen, Sansa pressed her palm against his hardness and steadily worked up and down. Only now did she have some semblance of understanding at how  _big_ he was. Her own body was writhing against him, her legs spreading further apart as she rocked into his hand. With her head falling back towards the pillow, Sansa bit her lip and arched into Sandor, her body contorting and squirming as she murmured incoherently until her eyes squeezed shut. With one final jolt passing through her body, Sansa's mouth fell open and the release of a long, resounding moan was smothered as Sandor pressed his mouth to hers, capturing her cries of pleasure as his tongue swirled warm into her mouth.

As she rode out her climax, Sansa's hand on Sandor's hardness slowed to a halt, her body going limp against the bed with a serene calm; one that juxtaposed the aching fervor that had now consumed him. Reaching towards her, Sandor engulfed Sansa's fingers with his hand, guiding her rhythm up and down his manhood and pressing hard against her hand until she found the right pressure. After he let go, Sansa diligently followed his lead and heard words came rambling and unintelligible out of his mouth, each interjected by deep, profanity-laden groans.

"Fuck, girl. Oh god, Sansa," he growled out, his hands fervently gliding over her breasts and down the curve of her waist. Suddenly, Sansa felt him convulse against her, his body stiffening and his fingers gripping her hard as a wetness spilled over her hand. After he climaxed, Sandor froze in place, seeming to have seized up where he was. Slowly as his breathing slowed and his grasp on her softened, Sandor fell back against the bed and turned to look at Sansa, a satisfied smile spreading across his lips.

For long moments, he stared at her with that same smile and his eyes seeming to memorize the sight of her now; still naked below the waist, lips swollen from his touch and his kiss, her eyes staring back at him with wonder and a sense of intimacy they hadn't known with one another yet. Suddenly realizing she was still covered in his seed, Sandor jumped up from the bed, tucking himself back into his pants as he retreated to the bathroom for a towel.

While he was away, Sansa leaned over the bed, retrieving her underwear carefully with one hand and pulling it back on before smoothing down her dress.

Sandor wiped her hand clean as well as the bed linens beneath her and tossed the towel to the floor. Instinctively and with a different sort of hunger and desire, Sandor pulled Sansa into his arms then. She relished his warmth as she rested her head against his chest, listening as his heartbeat slowed from a frantic rhythm to a steady beat. With slow movements, Sandor gently caressed her arm, moving his fingers back and forth up down its length.

For many moments after there was a calm silence, no urgent need for words and rather they laid still and warm in each other's arms. Sansa felt Sandor press a kiss to her forehead before he gave a deep, contented sigh, one which meant he would probably drift off into sleep soon. She too could benefit from sleep, but yet in the quiet stillness questions nagged her and curiosities filled her mind. Understanding something of herself, Sansa knew the questions and the curiosity combined would stave off sleep, taunting her through the night. Sucking in a breath, Sansa prepared herself to verbalize her question, the one that had set up permanent residence at the tip of her tongue all night.

"What was your phone call about?," she asked quietly, although surprised at her own boldness. The question sounded prodding even in her own ears and seemed in stark contrast to the satiated calm that had descended upon them.

Immediately roused from the precipices of sleep, Sandor turned his head to look at her, pulling away slightly with a gaze of shock; not affronted, but perhaps confused by her interest in the matter. His eyes wandered to the ceiling above them, staring blankly at the white expanse above as he chewed his bottom lip. Still pressed against his chest with one of his arms wrapped around her back, Sansa couldn't look at him now, too afraid of what he might say or if he might say nothing at all. Finally she heard him sigh and could see in the periphery of her vision that he had brought his other hand to his forehead.

"Sansa-"

She didn't like the way he said her name. It wasn't scolding and it didn't sound as if he were angry she had asked, more disappointed in her. The subtle emphasis and inflection of her name coming off of his tongue sounded eerily familiar to the way her father would say her name when she had done something to disappoint him.

"You don't have to tell me. I shouldn't have asked," Sansa interjected before he could say much more. She hadn't considered that although she may want to know everything, he may not want to tell her everything. Somehow that part of the equation had failed to register with her and it was that simple variable which suddenly made everything more complex.

"I have to leave for a little bit tomorrow," he offered quietly, his voice deep. "Just for the day. I'll leave late morning and be back tomorrow night."

A sudden fear hit her and Sansa snapped up, propping her weight on one elbow as her eyes fled towards his.

"What? Why?," she blurted with her head spinning.

Removing his hand from his forehead, Sandor gently brushed his fingers over her shoulder and down her arm in a soothing gesture.

"There's just something I need to take care of," he intoned as he gazed at her.

Biting her lip, Sansa felt the wave of panic spread through her body and leaving in its wake a heavy rooted fear no one had prepared her for, not even Mirabelle. Seeing this in her or perhaps intuiting her fear, Sandor mirrored Sansa, shifting towards her and propping himself up on his elbow. Draping one of his arms over the small of her waist, Sandor cast a steady stare down upon her.

"It'll be fine," he assured firmly. "The phone call I made was to a guy named Vincenzo. We call him Vinny. He's one of my capos who operates out of Redding. He's a good guy. I think you'll like him. Some of his men will be here to look after you and Mirabelle."

The fear of looking at him had fled now and Sansa let her eyes sweep up his chest to meet his gaze. It was the truth she knew, but it was incomplete. Although, she had only asked what his phone call was about. She didn't have the nerve to ask, truly and properly inquire, about where he was going tomorrow and why. Once more, Sansa had found herself painted in shades of grey, caught between knowing everything and knowing nothing. Mirabelle had not forewarned her of what might happen in this particular intersection of light and dark.

"Do you feel better now?," Sandor asked on an exhale.

Silently, Sansa nodded her head, understanding he wasn't the only one offering half-truths.

"Don't lie to me, girl," he warned. "I'll know if you do."

He had spoken a version of those words to her once before only then they were darker, harder, and laced with what she perceived as malice. Now they were spoken more out of concern, she gathered, and with the astuteness that made her swear he could see right through to her core.

Searching after the fear that gripped her now, Sansa asked the only thing she really, truly  _needed_  to know.

"Will it be dangerous?," she replied on something of a whisper.

"I'll be fine, little bird," Sandor assured with a smile once more. "I'll be back tomorrow night, just you wait and see."

Sandor had side-stepped her question, she noticed. Although, she supposed that no matter what business he did and no matter when he did it, it was probably always going to be dangerous. That was the bitter truth of the matter and one she would have to live with.

Sandor lowered himself to lie on his back, pulling Sansa down with him as he wrapped his arm around her. Resting her head against his chest, Sansa began tracing slow, concentric circles over his chiseled abdomen until Sandor snatched up her hand with his.

"You're thinking about something," he declared and Sansa marveled at how he could know that. Indeed, her mind was heavy with worries which had queued up in her head, patiently awaiting their turn to be addressed.

"Do you think it's strange how we've come together?," Sansa inquired quietly as he let her hand go and she began running circles over his chest now in some sort of gesture which she only now realized offered her a bit of reassurance.

"What has you thinking about this?," Sandor replied with curiosity and perhaps a bit of concern lingering in his voice.

Suddenly feeling a bit exposed, Sansa gave a shrug of her shoulders, hoping to the heavens that would be enough of an answer for him.

"No," Sandor finally answer, matter-of-factly and resolutely. "I like kissing you. I like being next to you. I like holding you. I like spending time with you. I like making you laugh. And I want to keep doing all of those things. It's as simple as that. And I don't give a fuck what other people think about it because I may not have a lot of experience in relationships, but I do know one thing for sure.  _No one_  has this shit figured out. And if they tell you they do, then they're lying."

Just like that, his answer was offered; simple and sweet in his own way. Smiling to herself, Sansa could tell he had thought about this. His answer held a bit of residual defensiveness, as if he had had to go to bat for her before.

Relaxing into his embrace, Sansa pressed the palm of her hand against his chest and felt the beating of his heart; strong and steady. She smiled once more at that.

"Would you ever have a goomah?," Sansa hesitantly queried. With her hand still pressed against his chest, Sansa could feel Sandor exhale a laugh which rumbled from his core.

"Well, I can tell you and Mirabelle had an enlightening chat," Sandor chuckled. "No. I wouldn't."

It was the truth and Sansa felt her lips, already smiling, pull into an assured grin.

"Do your men have goomahs?," she pressed further, her curiosity piqued.

"Some of them do. Most of the married ones, I'd say. It's an excuse to fuck other women. It's a symbol of status within the organization. I think the entire thing is bullshit. Why get married, say a bunch of oaths in the first place, if you plan on turning right around and breaking those oaths? Besides, usually goomahs cause problems."

Sansa had told Mirabelle she cared about Sandor. With Sandor's convictions shining through his words, Sansa realized now that not only did she care about him, she respected him too. And it was only now that she realized how far they had come, she and Sandor.

"So why do you let your men have them?," Sansa spoke, breathing life to the obvious question she had wondered about.

"It's none of my business what they do with their cocks," Sandor responded blankly. "As long as their wives and mistresses aren't causing problems, I don't really care. It's not my thing, but maybe it's theirs. To each their own, you know?"

 _To each their own._ Both Mirabelle and now Sandor had used those very words. And Sansa wondered then on what that meant; what it  _truly_  meant. It seemed to her that Mirabelle and Sandor existed in shades of grey too. They lived in the Underworld, played by its rules, but never fully participated in the "game." The lines of their moral compass were clearly drawn in a world that existed on violence and death. It was as if they kept one foot in this world, one foot in the Underworld; never really committing to one or the other. How long could that last though, she wondered. How long can someone exist at the intersection of light and dark before a battle began, each force working to extinguish the other.

"Yeah. That makes sense," Sansa finally managed by way of reply, still adrift in her thoughts.

Turning towards her, Sandor lowered himself on top of her, entwining his fingers in her hair spread across the pillow and settling his eyes onto hers.

"But you," he began quietly, his words meant for her and no one else. "You're no goomah. You're more than that."

Sansa stared up at him, this man caught between two worlds.

"What am I then?," she whispered back at him, her words stymied as he pressed his lips to hers in a soft kiss.

"You're the little bird,  _my_ little bird. That's what you are," he murmured between kisses, his thumb brushing against her cheek.

"Why are you so good to me?" Inadvertently, the question somehow came out accusatory. Sansa couldn't help it. This all felt too good to be true. Somewhere in what was left of the fear and darkness of her own heart, Sansa was terrified that this was just some cruel joke; that perhaps she would wake up tomorrow and the spell would be broken. He would be a monster, a creature of the darkness after all, and she would be alone.

Without missing a beat though, Sandor answered her question, his face impassable all except his eyes, which were astir with something she could not quite put her finger on. All Sansa could tell was that he didn't need to say anything, his eyes said it all.

"Because you deserve it," he declared anyway and Sansa knew it was the truth.

Without another word, Sandor turned off the bedside lamp, casting the room in shadows, before lowering himself to his side and pulling Sansa next to him.

With his arm draped over her stomach and his head nuzzled in the crook of her neck, Sandor eventually fell asleep next to her, his body conforming to her shape as she lay on her back. With the steadiness of warmth against her skin, Sansa mindlessly memorized the rhythm of his breath, the steady rise and fall of his chest. Staring at the ceiling, conflict had besieged her heart, the theater of war her mind. She felt caught in the middle of the endless push and pull of happiness and fear, joy and pain. When one had seemed to make headway on the battlefield, the other would strategically swoop in and gain the advantage.

Her heart was broken at all she had lost yet Sandor's presence had been the fire starter to her healing. And in their moments spent together, she had come to realize that he too had long suffered from a broken heart at all he had lost. He had never admitted as much to her and only fleetingly had she seen, but Sansa imagined the broken hearted could recognize one another. It was an unspoken and intuitive understanding that they shared, both her and Sandor. Maybe two broken hearts could make one another whole. Two lost souls could forge their way towards a shared home, refugees in the encampment of their companionship.

Sansa felt the familiar sting of tears which had silently formed in her eyes. She knew not where they came from, but as her eyes swept across the room, Sansa felt them roll down her cheeks. Through the blur of tears, she once more questioned where she was, who she was becoming.

 _'Down the rabbit hole. You're down the rabbit hole, Alice,'_ a voice from beyond seemed to say.

Sansa was only beginning to understand what that meant. It meant losing herself to something she couldn't control, falling headlong towards some unknowable future and destination. Down the rabbit hole to darkness or maybe to light, she wasn't quite sure. All she knew was that she was too far gone to find her way out. But maybe Sandor was like the white rabbit; a man who could exist in both the darkness and light, a man who would ultimately lead her out and show her the way back home. All she had to do was follow him and trust that he knew the way.

She imagined he did, but a deeper fear, a fear that she had not counted on, was beginning to emerge. It wasn't the fear that she may never find her way home, it was the fear that she would find her way home and that her heart would long for her to find her way back to the rabbit hole again. Down, down, down she would fall and instead of fear, she would welcome the embrace of darkness. And that fate would mean that she had lost herself while in the Underworld, that somewhere Sansa Stark of before was forever gone and a new woman had risen in her place, someone she didn't recognize or know.

She was fighting to keep a hold of herself, to retain something of who she was before coming to Sandor. She feared if she looked in the mirror, she may not recognize the reflection staring back at her, that her experiences were beginning to shape and mold the person she was. She feared losing more than she had already lost; losing herself, losing him. So the tears came as her trembling hand sought out Sandor's arm draped across her waist. She held onto him, willing her tears into silence as she slowly gasped for breaths, afraid he might hear. And although she was certain she had been quiet, Sandor stirred beside her and pulled her closer to him, urging her to turn on her side so that her back was flush against his chest.

"Baby, don't cry," he murmured in his sleep on a deep exhale of breath. The words were simple. They were sweet. They were comforting. He probably wouldn't remember saying them come morning, but they came when she needed them the most and that released another flush of tears; tears at how gentle he was with her and how much kindness he had shown her. Sansa felt Sandor move against her once more, this time fully roused from sleep. Wordlessly, he propped himself up on his elbow and turned her so that she was facing him. Sansa saw the confusion in his eyes yet he never pushed her to tell him what was wrong. Instead, he gazed at her, letting his eyes roam over her face as his hand came up from her waist and brushed the hair from the side of her face. Leaning in towards her, Sandor pressed a kiss delicately to her cheek, interrupting the flow of tears. Slowly, he moved up her cheek, catching tear drops on his lips before working his way to her other cheek and doing the same there.

When he was done, Sandor simply tucked her close to his chest, resting his chin on top of her head, and eventually fell back into slumber. Sansa stilled in his arms, working to match her breathing to his; pulling in deep breaths before pushing them out in a cleansing exhale.

And then it struck her. Sansa Stark of before was indeed gone and a new woman had risen in her place; flesh born of strength, bones forged in sorrow, and blood of resilience coursing through her veins. Perhaps like the phoenix, she had risen from the ashes anew, reborn from the innocence she had lost. Her losses would be honored in the temple of her heart, but they would not cripple her nor would they be her crutch. She would laugh again, love again, sing again, dance again, and live again. Sansa had not lost herself down the rabbit hole. She very well may have found herself instead.

* * *

 

 

 

_Mafia dictionary_

**Capos:** Short for caporegime. They are in charge of a group of men (soldiers), but ultimately answer to the Underboss and Boss.

 **Goomahs:** Girlfriends and mistresses of made men. Depending on the sources, it's sometimes used as a term of endearment, but because they're often mistress I gather the connotation is generally negative.

 **Lupara Bianca:** Lupara refers to a sawed off shot gun. Lupara bianca deals with Mafia slaying in which the remains are meant to never be found.

 **9's:** Guns

 **Sandor's involvement with Damian:** In the initiation ritual, the men swear not to get involved with the law (in so many words). They deal with dirty cops, yes, but the oath is more meant in terms of Omerta; no matter what happens, you never turn rat and talk to the "law."

 **Young Turk:**  Young and inexperienced made man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the endless love and support. I am amazed at the kindness I get. A special thanks to Underthenorthernlights, Zsra187, and Maroucia who all put up with my school-girlish whining about writing smut. You gals are the best!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Violence and mild racial tensions apply to this chapter. Mentions of rape and suicide.

 

**Gods and Monsters**

Chapter 10

"I see a storm bubbling up from the sea. And it's coming closer..."

                                                                                     -Kings of Leon

 

* * *

The rain was coming down in droves since morning, audibly rushing through the gutters, piling up in sodden puddles throughout the yard, and thickening the air with a heavy humidity as the sun feebly broke through layers of clouds.

Glancing down at his shirt, Sandor noticed the buttons were mismatched; the last button occupying the second to last hole and leaving the bottom hem of the white dress shirt sloppily asymmetric. Perhaps this was a testament to tiny, little buttons which were, themselves, mismatched to his oversized, clumsy fingers, but more probable was the fact that Sandor hadn't been paying much mind to what his fingers were doing. Instead, his eyes were steadied on the vision of Sansa in the mirror as she sat on the bed behind him. She had wrapped her arms around her legs, tucking them close to her chest, as her chin rested on her knees. She was wearing a T-shirt of his, one that seemed to swallow her whole as it engulfed her lithe frame.

Now, as he unbuttoned his shirt, content to just wear the white T-shirt underneath, Sandor watched her reflection as she assaulted her bottom lip, chewing it with a fervor that might suggest it would soon be bloodied in a ruby red sheen. Unburdening her legs from her arms' hold, Sansa snatched up her brush with a sigh and began pulling it through the dampened tresses of her hair, wincing a bit as she worked through tangles.

Sandor smiled towards her reflection, the sight of her something to behold and offered in stolen glances through a mirror. The culmination of her apparent poutiness, coupled with the way she seemed to disappear in his T-shirt, broke any residual sense of foreboding that had encapsulated him this morning.

In slow, purposeful steps, Sandor paced to the end of the bed, letting the white pressed shirt fall to the floor as he approached. Sansa had ceased both the chewing of her lip and the brushing of her hair as he stood before her. With eyes downcast, she simply let the hair brush tumble from one hand to the next, her thoughts seeming to render her silent. Pressing his hands against the mattress on either side of her, Sandor bent forward and sought out her lips in a kiss; warm and gentle, but still quite sufficient to elicit a steady rising of his pulse.

The evening before came back in flashes against the darkness behind his eyes; the sensations almost as tangible now as they were last night- the sweetness of her whimpering, the wetness between her legs which had welcomed his touch and communicated her want, the sound of his own name escaping her lips as she touched herself while he watched, entranced. She had come undone at his touch, breathless and panting, and it was her face at that very moment which remained chief amongst his memories of it all. He had watched her while she came, memorizing the sight of her writhing against his fingers inside of her in motions fluid and automatic. Her eyes had fluttered closed and her lips had parted, granting his own lips access to her mouth, an opportunity which he fervently took.

The memories played back in Sandor's mind as he deepened this current kiss, flicking his tongue against Sansa's lips until they opened for him. Feeling his cock harden against the confines of his pants, Sandor's mind wandered back to the memory of Sansa's slender fingers wrapped tentatively around his hardness. He had shown her how to proceed and found himself enthralled at teaching her these sorts of things, leading her on this exploration of one another and showing her the way to her own pleasure as well as his. He wanted her now and thought about her nakedness underneath his T-shirt, save for her panties which he imagined, or at least hoped, would be soaked with all her delicious wetness. That thought alone elicited a steady pulsating of his cock with the pounding of his heart. Without missing a beat, Sandor's mind made the connection between the two; a marriage of his thoughts which culminated into the imaginings of how perfect she would feel-warm, wet, and tight- around his cock as he slid in and out of her.

Sandor abruptly broke the kiss at that, lest it lead to activities rendering them indisposed for the next couple of hours; activities which once started, he wasn't sure he possessed the willpower to stop. Instead, he remained where he was, leaning forward towards Sansa and anticipating the thoughts of her mind to come pouring from her lips. Instead, she shifted towards him, scooting to the edge of the bed and wrapping her arms around his waist with her face buried against his chest. Sandor stood to accommodate her sudden affection and took the opportunity to run his fingers through the length of her hair, smoothing it away from her face with each pass.

"Do you have to go?" Sansa murmured as she lifted her gaze to meet his eyes, her lips pouty and swollen from the incessant chewing, or perhaps the fervor of their kiss. "Can't you just stay?"

Her voice quavered a bit as her eyes glistened beneath the light infiltrating the room; however, it was the profound worry in her eyes that caught Sandor's attention, not the brilliant blue and consistent sweetness that was staring back at him. A surging of guilt within him had answered the call to her worry, each self-sustaining yet perpetuated by the other. The sensation was foreign to him, but no less bittersweet. No one, save Mirabelle, worried about him when he left on business, but even his own sister understood the implications each time he walked out the door on an assignment. At some point she had come to terms with it and coped by sealing herself off from a barrage of troubled thoughts at the potential, but no less real, outcomes. In this way, she had equipped herself with a resilience brought on by acceptance.  _Whatever happens, happens_  was Mirabelle's mantra, yet beneath that armor of words, Sandor knew she feared for him now more than ever, although she never said as much.

Unable to hide much of her own fear, Sansa kept her stare resolutely on Sandor as her fingers clutched against his back.

"If I could stay, I would," he finally offered with the full knowledge it was insufficient at vanquishing her unease. "You know I can't do that, though."

His words, though honest, seemed to dash whatever fleeting hope she was clinging to. It was the truth, and it would be a recurring truth as long as Sansa stayed with him. Sandor was never one to lie, and he certainly wasn't about to build a castle of false security to put her up in. That, in his mind, went beyond lying; it was a manipulation of the worst kind, the cruelty of which went far beyond the temporary sting of honesty.

Accepting for now, Sansa unwound her arms from Sandor and sat back, silently nodding her head.

"I know," she whispered, perhaps more to herself than to him. Sandor lowered himself to sit on the bed next to her and patiently watched as her mouth subtly opened and closed, the words not quite ready to exit her lips. Whatever was going through Sansa's mind, she was seemingly drawing strength from it. Whereas moments earlier she had looked something like a porcelain doll in his arms, childlike and fragile, Sansa now shed that frailty as she sat up to her full height, sucking in and then releasing a deep breath before turning to him, her countenance now composed and resilient.

"Is it always like this?" she queried with a faint smile; not one of happiness, but rather a show of tepid acceptance.

"Not always," Sandor replied with a shrug of the shoulders, yet somehow that itself sounded like a lie given all that had transpired over the past few weeks.

Sansa turned to him, studying his face in earnest until he knew for certain she was not satisfied with his answer and was ready to call him on some perceived bluff. Sandor folded, unwilling to keep her from the truth. Running his hands over his face with a deep sigh, Sandor bought himself some time to gather a proper response.

"Things have been intense lately," he began, elbows resting on his knees and his fingers interwoven with one another as he settled his gaze on Sansa. "Everything is just really complicated right now. There's a lot I need to deal with. Hopefully, it will all settle down soon and you'll see it's not as bad as it seems."

"I wish you would tell me about these  _things_  you have to deal with," Sansa intoned with firmness, despite the quiet gentleness of her voice. "These complicated  _things._ "

Pulling one leg up on the bed, Sansa turned to face him, their bodies now perpendicular and strangely communicating something of their willingness to engage down this particular path of conversation. Sandor could not look at her, although he knew he should. Instead, his eyes bore into the dresser directly in front of him as he mindlessly studied the grain of the wood rather than meet Sansa's stare; a stare which held a heart-wrenching plea that very well might break him. Still, he chased after the words he might speak now. He needed them to match the sentiment he was trying to accomplish by not telling her exactly what he was doing today, what he had ordered done yesterday, and what he might have to do in the comings days.

Selfish as it may be, Sandor found himself seeking sanctuary in her purity and her innocence, hoping that perhaps some of her light would forever eradicate the darkness that had consumed his life for so long. In return, Sandor would protect her from the demons in the darkness he himself had created, stave them off for as long as possible with the improbable hope that they could never reach her. Whether he told Sansa or not, she wouldn't understand either way, and with that realization in mind, Sandor finally shifted his stare from the dresser to meet Sansa's expectant eyes.

"They're not something I want to expose you to if I don't have to," Sandor began after clearing his throat with a deep rumble. "You're a smart girl, Sansa. I think you can imagine what happens when I leave to deal with business. It's not all good, but it's not always as dangerous as you might think."

Sandor watched as Sansa's brow furrowed at that, eyes clouding over with confusion and possibly hurt at his lack of divulgence.

"Alright," Sandor rasped as he turned towards Sansa, mirroring her body language and cupping the softness of her cheek with one of his massive hands. "Do I look scared?"

Holding his gaze, Sansa silently shook her head with the tiniest of movements, scarcely discernible even as his hand remained tucked against her cheek.

"Do I look worried?" Sandor continued, his thumb sweeping over her cheekbone. Once more, Sansa gave a shake of the head by way of reply. "If I'm not worried, then you shouldn't be either. If the day comes you see me worried, then you can be worried too."

She wanted more; he could tell by the way her eyes searched his face, sweeping over the angles of his nose and jaw until finally settling back on his eyes, which had been watching her the entire time. Sated with what tidbits he had offered her for now, Sansa leaned her head against his hand at her cheek before nodding her head, understanding and complying if only temporarily.

Sandor pressed a kiss to her forehead and pushed himself from the bed, not knowing what else there was to say and entirely certain anything beyond what he had already told her would only add to the worries surmounting in her head.

"I'll let you get dressed and do whatever you need to do in here," he stated blankly before pacing out of the room and closing the bedroom door behind him.

Stillness seemed to consume the house, the aftermath of merriment scattered throughout: dishes stacked in the kitchen sink, a half-eaten lemon cake sitting on the counter with frosting hard as a rock by now, the stale smell of wine and whiskey lingering pungently in the air. By night, everything looked different, felt different.

Somehow, by the light of day, things became clearer, and the startling sense of reality was illuminated now, whereas before it could dwell in the shadows of darkness to proliferate before dawn. The rooted sense of foreboding lurked amongst those shadows, infuriated at its abandonment and seeking vindication now. The world looked different through eyes wide open.

The thrum of a running dishwasher filled the room with white noise and was accompanied by the shuffling of Mirabelle's slippered feet as she wiped down the countertop. This was Mirabelle's way of worrying; instead of sitting solemnly on a bed and asking questions, Mirabelle resorted to domestic tasks which occupied both her hands and her mind. On days Sandor and Bronn had business to take care of, Mirabelle could be found Swiffering the fuck out of something or baking ungodly amounts of muffins, cookies, and cupcakes.

"Good morning, sunshine," Mirabelle chirped with a smile as Sandor stepped into the kitchen. "Coffee?" his sister queried as she held up the pot after filling her own mug.

Sandor shook his head, opting rather for orange juice and aspirin in an effort to remedy the slow pressure that was building into a headache. Sitting at the kitchen table, Sandor massaged his forehead with the tips of his fingers, pinching the bridge of his nose in some futile effort to alleviate the dull pain.

"Where's Bronn?" he asked gruffly as Mirabelle pulled out a chair and sat across from him.

"Still rolling around in bed," she answered between cautionary sips of her coffee. Sandor shot a cursory glance towards the microwave clock.  ** _10:47 am_** _._

"Still?" Sandor snorted a mocking laugh as he shook his head.

"If you didn't notice, he was more than a little drunk last night." Lifting his eyes, Sandor found his sister shooting him a quasi-chiding glare through narrowed eyes.

"Well, if I remember correctly, you were a bit of a lush last night too," Sandor pressed, fully aware of just the right ways to ruffle his baby sister's feathers.

With her mouth agape in feigned offence, Mirabelle reached across the table and slapped the flat of her hand hard against Sandor's shoulder as they both exchanged a laugh.

Settling back in her seat, Mirabelle clutched her coffee mug between her hands, seemingly relishing the warmth that it emitted. A steady silence passed between them as Mirabelle's eyes raked over Sandor with a quizzical smile spreading across her lips.

"What?" Sandor growled, knowing full well this was one of those infamous "Mirabelle looks". Rolling her eyes, Mirabelle leaned forward and cocked her head to the side.

"The necklace," she demanded with a bit of exasperation at even having to ask. "Are you going to tell me how that went or am I going to have to interrogate Sansa about it?"

Sandor shrugged his shoulders, not understanding what exactly Mirabelle wanted to know about it. He gave it to Sansa and she liked it. End of story.

"She liked it, said as much," he finally responded, pushing himself from the table to throw a few pieces of bread into the toaster.

Even from across the kitchen, Sandor could see his sister's frustration; her lips were drawn in a defeated scowl and her eyebrows creased with annoyance.

"I'll have to grill Sansa about it," Mirabelle remarked with an ornery pout. "You're not too forthcoming with details this morning. Is everything alright?"

Snatching the toast from the toaster and tossing it onto a paper towel, Sandor rolled his eyes. He hated these types of questions from Mirabelle. Whether something was wrong or not, this was the beginning of an onslaught of questions all leading towards the end result of Sandor revealing something shocking to Mirabelle, some bit of truth he wouldn't normally share with anyone else. The problem was that most of the time he had nothing to reveal to his sister. She had a way of making a mountain out of a mole hill in no time, reading into his silence and making it her mission to "fix" whatever imagined troubles he had.

"Yeah, everything's fine," Sandor retorted, retrieving butter and jelly from the fridge before retreating back to the table with his meager breakfast.

"You're worried," Mirabelle declared with an exhaled breath as she twirled the end of her pony tail around her index finger. A smug smile pulled on her lips, one which suggested she knew she was picking up on something legit, and that alone spurring her on even more.

"I'm not fucking worried," Sandor grumbled as he attended to his toast, slathering it in the proper accoutrements.

"You're worried," he heard Mirabelle mumble from across the table as she eyed him carefully, entirely cognizant of his moodiness and gauging how far to push it.

"I'm not worried about today," Sandor snapped as he dropped the butter knife against the table with a loud clang. Taking a deep breath, Sandor retrieved the knife and lowered his voice. "I'm worried about Sansa and how she's going to handle things with me being gone today."

Mirabelle gave a sympathetic nod at this particular confession, gently setting her coffee mug to the table as she gathered her thoughts. Despite all the prodding questions which toted the line on being annoying as fuck, Sandor did genuinely appreciate this part; the part where he finally reveals his worries and Mirabelle offers a bit of valuable insight and advice. His sister could be pushy, but she was perceptive, that was for damn sure.

"She's not used to any of this, Sandor," Mirabelle softly responded as she met Sandor's eyes with a delicate gaze. "Of course, she's going to be worried. I think that's natural. You've been her protector for the past two weeks and now you're leaving. Granted, it's only for today, but still. She's allowed to be worried."

Having thrown in her two cents, Mirabelle shrugged her shoulders, content regardless of whether or not Sandor responded to her input. Lowering his eyes to the jelly and butter melting against the toast, Sandor slowly nodded his head. Mirabelle had a point, but that point only further validated Sandor's concerns for Sansa. This was her christening into the Underworld as it applied to their relationship, if that's indeed what they were in right now. Sooner or later, this scenario was going to play out, only now the stakes were higher.

"Keep an eye on her," Sandor finally spoke, tossing his piece of toast down with the sudden realization that he wasn't hungry.

"I always do," his sister assured with a smile. Lifting herself from her seat, Mirabelle paced around the table and draped an arm around the breadth of Sandor's shoulders. "And I always will," she added while squeezing him into an embrace.

Sandor watched as Mirabelle dumped her coffee out in the sink and disappeared down the hallway, presumably to rouse Bronn, or so he hoped. Glancing once more up at the microwave clock, Sandor groaned at the time.  ** _11:08 am_** _._

Grinning into his juice glass as he took a gulp, Sandor reminded himself to give Bronn hell for this, to bust his chops about not being able to hold his liquor anymore. The man hated jokes that either implied his age or implied that he was losing his machismo swagger.

Once more the house fell silent; the dishwasher no longer humming, the shuffle of Mirabelle's feet across the kitchen floor having been quieted for many moments now, the house itself like a crypt. Sandor shifted his gaze out the bay window next to the kitchen table. The sun had finally triumphed over clouds and was now breaking across the glistening blades of grass. In the silence, he thought of Sansa, admired the vision of her in his mind; her beauty unparalleled, her kindness unwavering, her laughter infectious, her lips sweet and willing.  _And she's mine._

Smiling to himself again, Sandor wondered what the fuck he had done to be so lucky.  _You stole her away._ The thought came careening from the depths of his mind to assault his conscious or perhaps his conscience. Resilient against any sort of self-reprimanding, Sandor buried the thoughts away. It's not as if he forced himself on Sansa. He had kept his distance at first, his brooding reserve unfaltering. Both he and Sansa had headed down this particular path together.  _But you set her on this path. She very well may have never chosen it herself under other circumstances._ Sandor stiffened at the sudden clarity of his inner oracle of wisdom. Typically, this inner voice was silenced by the myriad of other concerns running through his head at any given moment. But Sandor knew all too well that in moments where silence reigned supreme, his thoughts would play out in his mind, coming and going as they willed, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Light footsteps heading towards him blessedly roused Sandor from his thoughts and pulled his vision towards Sansa coming across the kitchen. His eyes flickered up and down her form. She was wearing jeans and a white tank top, a casual ensemble he only now realized he hadn't seen her wear before. The tousled tendrils of her air-dried hair tumbled over her shoulders in waves of auburn. Whether or not she was wearing make-up, he couldn't tell. All he knew was that her face looked natural, beautiful as always, but not painted with the same crap that Mirabelle put all over her face. Around her neck, his mother's necklace was set against the creamy porcelain of her skin, the purple hues shining as the gemstone caught the light. Sandor knew with a certainty he had made the right choice; the choice to protect her from the start, the choice to bring her here, the choice to let her see him,  _really_ see him, the choice to give her something that belonged to his mother and by doing so allowing her to be a part of his family, the choice to let her into his life, and more significantly, his heart.

"You're looking at me funny." Sansa laughed softly as she shyly tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and continued traversing the distance between them.

"I'm looking at you like I always look at you," Sandor replied mischievously as he swiveled in his seat, holding out his arms and pulling Sansa onto his lap. She seemed so small in his arms, her form consumed by his.

"Hmm," she pondered quizzically. Sandor could feel her gentle humming vibrations against his arm wrapped around her back. Nuzzling her head against his chest, Sansa exhaled a contented sigh as one of her hands began running smooth circles over the contours of his muscled forearm. Sandor closed his eyes at the sensation of her touch and the warmth of her body in his arms. Everything about this girl felt so damn  _good_. With her presence, her sweetness, any residual qualms fled from Sandor's mind, leaving his thoughts to remain solely on the woman tucked in his arms.

The resounding dinging of the doorbell echoed loudly throughout the room. Sansa jumped, startled by the sound and lifted a wide-eyed gaze to Sandor.

"Up you go," Sandor sighed, patting Sansa twice on the thigh. "We've got company," he added as he pushed himself from the table and stood to his full height, welcoming the popping in his back as he stretched.

Before Sandor had made it halfway across the kitchen with Sansa following behind, Mirabelle came skipping down the hallway and darted towards the front door.

"I'll get it!" she shouted out with a girlish giggle as she made for the door and disappeared into the foyer, out of Sandor's line of sight.

Although Sandor could not see, he heard Mirabelle's instantaneous squealing as soon as the door creaked open with a metallic groan.

"Viiiiinnnnnyyyy!"

The sounds of heavy footsteps crossing the threshold reverberated through the foyer and were accompanied by the familiar sound of Vincenzo's voice.

"Well, I'll be goddamned, Mirabelle Clegane," Vinny bellowed through the foyer joyously. "You just get prettier every time I see you. I better tell your brother to lock you up, girl."

As Vinny rounded the corner, Sandor was instantaneously met with the man's toothy smile, his arms extended as he made his way towards Sandor, who was leaning against the back of the couch in the living room, Sansa next to his side.

"Eh! There he is," Vinny exclaimed, his cheeks red and sweat beading on his heavy brow as he pulled Sandor in for a hug.

Allowing a half smile to crease across his face, Sandor begrudgingly complied. One of the many misgivings he had with the Italian mafia traditions was the often gratuitous affection the men shared amongst one another; the lengthy, almost suffocating hugs, the kissing on the cheeks, each in turn, as a way of greeting someone. Sandor understood the mafia was a brotherhood; these were the men that would have your back when shit went down. That was all good and well, but Sandor found he could do without the fucking hugs. Regardless, he obliged Vinny, letting the man pull him in for one of his infamous embraces which ended with pats on the back packing almost a violent amount of force. Sandor could only imagine how Vinny's wife survived her husband's hugs.

Finally released from the embrace, Sandor sucked in a breath, imagining Vinny had cracked a few of his ribs.

"Good to see you, Vinny. It's been too long," Sandor spoke, his voice deep and severe in comparison to Vinny's animated jovialness.

Vinny had always reminded Sandor of a cartoon version of a mobster; every stereotype residing in this one man to an exaggerated extent. Despite having left the Bronx some twenty years ago, his New York accent was distinct, preserved with pride. That same pride extended to his Italian-American upbringing, one which instilled in him the value of family and a love for his heritage. He was a tall man, stocky although time and age had padded his once chiseled physique, rendering him a self-proclaimed Italian meatball. Time had also assaulted his hairline, forcing it to retreat until nothing remained on top except the sheen of a bald head. What Vinny lacked in traditional good looks, he made up for with his personality. He was boisterous, over-the-top, and could drink any of the men under the table, but the man had a heart of gold and his loyalty to Sandor had been unwavering since the beginning.

Sansa shifted next to Sandor's side as Vinny's men filed into the room, many familiar faces to Sandor although he had little direct contact with them. He could understand how it was an intimidating sight; each of the men sported something between a scowl and a poker face as they offered Sandor their respect by nods of the head and nothing more.

"Vinny, I'd like you to meet Sansa," Sandor finally broke in as he swept his gaze down at her by his side. She looked terrified; eyes wide and uncertain, a slight blush emerging across her cheeks.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sansa," Vinny intoned in a softened timbre. He took one of Sansa's petite hands in his own and bowed his head politely before pressing a kiss to the back of her hand.

Sansa's body seemed to lose a bit of tension at that as she smiled warmly back at Vinny.

"Nice to meet you too," she replied gently, her voice honey sweet and filling Sandor with a sense of pride.

Turning towards Sansa so that she was between him and Vinny, Sandor lowered his voice, his reassuring words meant almost exclusively for her ears.

"Vinny and some of the men you see here will be staying with you and Mirabelle today." Sandor fought the urge to touch her; to take her hand, to pull her next to him, to press his lips to hers in a stolen kiss. Instead, he stood with his arms at his side, his eyes the only thing expressing that want. Sansa looked up at him and nodded her head, the trust apparent and inflaming his urge to touch her.

"We'll take good care of you girls," Vinny interrupted as he rested one of his hands heavily on Sansa's shoulder, nearly engulfing it entirely with his thick fingers.

From behind, Sandor could hear Bronn's voice merrily infiltrating the room. Turning around, Bronn ambled from the hallway in swaggering strides, a cocksure smile plastered to his face that still, despite copious amounts of sleep, looked fatigued and worn.

"Look who it is!" Bronn cried out as he found Zulu amongst the men that had made the trip from Redding. Pulling the kid towards him, Bronn put him into a head lock and rubbed his knuckles against Zulu's mohawked head.

"Hey little buddy, you on guard duty today?" Bronn added with delight as Zulu writhed feebly against Bronn's hold. As Bronn finally released, Zulu stumbled backwards, flushing a deep red with embarrassment and rubbing his head with a pained expression on his face. Sandor hadn't seen the kid initially; somehow he had managed to dissolve away from Sandor's vision as he settled behind the group of about ten men.

"Vinny, good to see you," Bronn greeted with a nod. Resting his hands on his hips, Bronn took in the sight of the men that had filled the room as he approached Sandor and Vinny.

At the sight of the three of them together, Sansa discreetly slipped away, intuitively understanding that now was the time they would be talking shop. From the corner of his eye, Sandor could see Mirabelle eagerly ushering Sansa to the outskirts of the room, leading by example as she engaged Sansa in conversation while paying no mind to the business taking place right in front of them.

Settling his stare towards Vinny and Bronn, Sandor crossed his arms about his chest and ran through the details of his plan once more in his mind before speaking. Patiently, Vinny and Bronn waited, neither saying a word.

"Vinny, you'll stay here with the girls and four of your men. I don't care which ones. The other half will come with Bronn and I."

Vinny nodded his head in agreement, ever willing to assure Sandor that he trusted the decisions that were made. Sandor leveled a stare towards Bronn.

"I want Zulu with us today," Sandor asserted with a deepened voice. Bronn pursed his lips and bobbed his head to the side with a shrug of the shoulders. While he wasn't exactly disagreeing with Sandor's decision, Bronn certainly was making no moves to express his agreement either. Something about that grated on Sandor's nerves. Bronn had been adamant about bringing Zulu on board with the Moriarti, had raved about the kid for-fucking-ever and now was reluctant to let Zulu do anything.

"Look, you fucking made him and now I want to see what he's worth," Sandor growled out through clenched teeth. "He's coming with us."

"You got it," Bronn spoke, defeat or perhaps wounded pride lacing his words as he walked away to organize the men. Sandor didn't have time to maneuver his way around his men's pride. He could give a fuck that his words might deflate their egos a bit. In the end, it was probably for the best anyway.

Sandor's attention was pulled back towards Vinny as the man settled both of his hands on Sandor's shoulders, catching his eyes in a sincere stare.

"Listen, boss. I've been meaning to tell you that I'm sorry I couldn't make it to Alonzo's funeral. I loved the man; you know that." Sandor nodded his head in response. He did indeed know that. Everyone loved Alonzo. That was no secret.

" _Che peccato,_ " Vinny added with a forlorn shake of his head as he removed his hands from Sandor's shoulders and let them settle back by his side.

Sandor's Italian was rough at the very best, but he understood well enough that whatever Vinny had said seemed to speak to the senselessness of it all. A growing fraction of Sandor's attention was pulled to the sight of Mirabelle and Sansa in the periphery of his vision. One of Vinny's men had made his way towards the girls, seemingly engaging them in small talk.

"I know you mentioned our associate yesterday over the phone," Vinny spoke as he lowered his voice despite the fact that the others in the room, involved in their own conversations, were paying no mind to them. "This doesn't have to do with the mannagge we're gearing up to have, does it?"

'Sansa. That's a beautiful name. I like it. Is it Italian?'

Sandor heard perhaps every other word Vinny spoke and knew by the inflection of the man's voice that he had just asked him a question. However, Vinny's words were a whisper in comparison to the conversation Sandor had somehow tuned in to; a conversation between Sansa and one of Vinny's men.

"No, Damian is a separate issue," Sandor responded absentmindedly, his eyes flickering towards Sansa. The made-man chatting her up was young, probably close to Sansa's age; a fucking Cugine that was probably made yesterday. The kid's body language alone sent a rush of heat to surge through Sandor's veins. With hands shoved in his pockets, the kid was turned fully to face her, his head cocked to the side, a wide grin plastered to his face as he roved over Sansa with greedy eyes.

"What's his taste?" Vinny asked, either blissfully unaware of Sandor's growing agitation or perhaps trying to distract it altogether.

Reluctantly pulling his stare away from Sansa, Sandor turned to Vinny with a response, his words coming biting and harsh from his lips.

"Enough to get what I need from him and no more." The corner of his mouth was twitching now as it always did when irritation was on a steady rise within him.

Sandor's attention was pulled back to Sansa. The kid had taken a step closer to her, and while she was being polite, Sandor couldn't help the anger brewing inside of him at the sight of her offering smiles to this kid. Her lips and all that went with them- smiles, kisses, pouts- were meant for  _him_ and  _him alone_.

"You know I don't trust the fucker," Vinny declared in a cautionary tone, not realizing the irony of his words in this moment, although Sandor knew he was referring to Damian. "But you do what you've got to do, boss."

Mindlessly, Sandor nodded his head as he kept his eyes steadfast on the sight unfolding before him, despite Vinny's imploring stare that was boring into him.

'Portland. That's a great city. My grandma lives there. I would have visited her more often if I knew girls like you lived in Portland.'

Sandor watched as Sansa seemed to tense at that, well aware now that this guy wasn't just engaging her in a nice conversation. Mirabelle, still situated next to Sansa, discreetly shot Sandor a  _what-the-fuck_ look.

"Who the  _fuck_ is this kid?" Sandor seethed as he motioned his head towards the fucker talking to Sansa.

"Eli Zaccaretti. We call him E.Z.," Vinny volunteered immediately as he shook his head, disappointment flaring in his eyes. "I'm sorry, boss. He doesn't know. I'll go over and break that shit up," Vinny added as he took a step forward.

True enough, Sandor was angry. More than that, he was fucking livid. However, darker entities than just anger existed within his being; ones that fueled the sadistic pleasure he got from watching those who crossed him squirm. He could make a scene now, rage at the kid until he pissed his pants in fear and stammered out promises to stay as far away from Sansa as possible. Or he could kill two birds with one stone: ensure that this fucker never again got anywhere near Sansa and at the same time demonstrate to the others what happens when they disrespect Sansa Stark or question her place here.

Reaching his arm out, Sandor blocked Vinny's path forward, stopping the man in his tracks. Confusion flooded Vinny's face as he stared up at Sandor with questioning eyes.

"If he doesn't know, then I need to educate him. He'll come with me and Bronn today," Sandor rasped darkly, his eyes settled icily onto Vinny.

"What are you going to do?" Vinny asked on a thin voice, one which suggested the man was fearing the worst.

"I don't believe Eli Zaccaretti and I have been introduced," Sandor began casually with a devilish grin. "I think he and I will need to go for a little ride together so he can get to know the Hound. And if I happen to put the fear of God into him, then so be it."

Nodding his head, Vinny broke into hearty laughter. If he disagreed with what Sandor wanted to do, he didn't show it and dared not speak it. Instead, he just laughed nervously and nodded his head.

"A little fear of God never hurt anyone," Vinny replied as he patted Sandor on the back.

 _Around here I'm both God and Monster._ Sandor remembered speaking those words to Sansa, willing her to understand during a time that seemed like ages ago. Soon enough this kid would come to know the truth of those words.

Sandor realized then that he hadn't yet grabbed his pistol. Seeing as how he was meeting Damian in a public place, he would have to pack discreetly and forgo his normal accessory of a shoulder holster. As Bronn organized the men, Sandor slipped away, retreating to the bedroom to grab his gun.

Returning back to the living room, Sandor saw as the men assigned to come with him were filing out the front door, laughing as they went, perhaps to quell any nerves they might have. The men that were staying behind had gathered in the kitchen at Mirabelle's offer to make them sandwiches. Sweeping his eyes across the room, he found Sansa standing where she had been the entire time, her eyes once more filled with unease as her lips were drawn in a pouty frown.

Sandor motioned her towards him with an incline of his head and watched as she moved towards him, seemingly careful to pace each of her steps lest she run towards him. With the alcove of the foyer obscured from sight of the kitchen, Sandor pulled Sansa flush against his chest and brought both of his hands up to cup the sides of her face, his fingers interweaving into the long strands of her hair.

Tentatively, he settled his gaze on her, knowing damned well that the look she was giving him now was going to be heartbreaking, even by his standards. Sure enough, her blue eyes glistened with the promise of tears, her lips trembled a bit, her cheeks were flush, and she stared at him with a gaze that pleaded for him to stay.

"Do I look worried?" Sandor queried in a steady voice, both calm and strong as his lips curled into a smile.

"No," Sansa whispered by way of reply as she shook her head. Once more, she began gnawing on her bottom lip. Lowering his head, Sandor occupied her lips for now in a kiss. She could chew them all she wanted later, but for now they were his.

"Then neither should you, little bird," Sandor murmured as he pulled away from the kiss and let his mouth hover over hers.

Nodding her head, Sansa reluctantly unbound her arms from their embrace and took a step back. Looking up at him once more, she offered Sandor a smile. It was feigned happiness, but sweet nonetheless.

"I'll see you later tonight," he replied, smiling back at her as he pushed through the glass storm door.

The men outside, six of them in total including Bronn, were dividing up into two cars. Sandor spotted Eli, beaming like an idiot and obviously gloating in his perceived conquest of Sansa. Feeling himself become furled in his own anger, Sandor clenched his fingers into tight fists before pacing towards his own car.

As Sandor opened the driver's side door, Bronn flashed him a confused look as he seemed to enumerate the men once more.

"There are only seven of us," Bronn hollered out towards Sandor, his brow folding against the now glaring sun. "We could probably just take two cars."

Sandor ignored Bronn and instead settled his eyes on Eli like a predator to his prey.

"Eli, why don't you ride with me today," Sandor shouted out, trying his best to hide his profound anger behind a nonchalant tone.

It seemed to work. Shrugging his shoulders, Eli cantered towards the car with a gleeful smile plastered to his face as he slipped into the passenger seat.

Lifting his eyes above the hood of the car, Sandor caught Bronn's stare and saw as the man shook his head whilst exhaling a small chuckle, understanding clearing away any residual confusion.

It was what any man would do if a guy disrespected him in his own house and with his own girl. Except Sandor Clegane wasn't just any man and Sansa Stark wasn't just any girl. She was  _his_ girl.

* * *

Heavy, she felt heavy. The world was hers to bear; the weight of which threatened to snap her shoulders in some mockery of the profound weakness she felt.  _Everything is heavy._

The air outside was molten: hot, humid, thick to the point of suffocating. The sun, although partially shaded by clouds, was oppressive in its hazy light and steady heat. Although she had retreated to the back deck, Sansa could hear Mirabelle's laughter coming from the kitchen, assaulting her ears with every whooping round of hilarity that ensued as Mirabelle entertained the men with her charm, the darling of the Moriarti that she was.

Sansa had come out here for quiet and calm; a respite from the sickening presence of doubt, worry, and foreboding that had seeped into her heart. Instead, the entire world pressed against her, coiled around her as it threatened to squeeze the sanity from her mind. The cacophony of noises - Mirabelle's cackling laughter along with the black birds squawking as they picked at worms in the yard - were enough to drive her mad.

By some deformity of the senses, everything was amplified; noises pounded through her ears like a drum, the light seemed blinding, the heavy air burned against her skin, and the taste of bile hit the back of her throat as she fought like hell against the churning sensation to vomit.

Sitting on the steps of the deck that led down to the expanse of the yard, Sansa sealed her eyes shut and sucked in a deep breath of the dense air. It was too much. It was all just too much. More deep breaths and a refusal to open her eyes to the world pounding against her thresholds, Sansa finally found a fleeting shred of peace.

"How are you holding up?" Mirabelle's voice tore away at the thin veil of calm as the woman emerged from inside the house and lowered herself to sit next to Sansa.

"Oh, fine. I'm fine," Sansa lied, startled, as her eyes snapped open and she squinted against the omnipresent light of the sun.

Like her brother, Mirabelle saw through lies. The similarities of how these siblings handled mistruths stopped there, for Mirabelle rarely called someone out on it the way Sandor did. Instead, she smiled her familiar rouged smile; the one that wrinkled the corners of her sympathetic eyes.

"It gets easier. I promise," Mirabelle offered on a hoarse voice accompanied by a reassuring rub on Sansa's back.

Sansa doubted very much things would get easier. If anyone should call another out on a lie, Sansa imagined it should be herself. Life never gets simpler; its linearity doesn't quite work that way. Regardless, she kept her mouth shut and permitted her lips to crease into a polite smile.

"You like the necklace," Mirabelle spoke as she nodded her head towards the jewel hanging delicately from Sansa's neck. It wasn't meant as a question, Sansa knew, and yet she felt compelled to give an answer.

"I do," Sansa replied quietly as she peered down at the purple stone. "Very much so. Did you ever wear it?" she added, shifting her gaze to Mirabelle.

The woman stared off towards the yard as her mind seemed to file through memories, seeking out old and worn recollections of the past. Finally, she exhaled a deep sigh and turned to Sansa; her smile now forlorn and no longer wrinkling the skin around her eyes. It was a polite smile.

"No. Come to think of it, I never did," Mirabelle answered with only the faintest traces of regret coloring her voice. "I think it always held a certain fascination for Sandor more than it did for me." To search Mirabelle's wistfully subdued countenance, Sansa knew it was the truth; a strange truth that held the promise of delight. Sandor Clegane's fascination with a necklace was something she needed to hear more about.

"How so?" Sansa pressed as her ears waited for something sweet, a balm for the sounds that had about driven her to near-mania only moments ago.

Unfolding her hands from her lap, Mirabelle leaned back against the short staircase on which they were seated. Her elbows rested against the flat expanse of a step as she lifted her eyes to the sky, unfazed by the light.

"After my grandmother passed away, my mother wore it often. It was almost an amulet against a broken heart for her. I was still very young at that time, but those were the formative years of Sandor and my mother's relationship. To him, that necklace is  _her._ In that way, it's more meaningful to him and holds more sentiment than it does for me."

Sansa furrowed her brow against this information, although she now understood; the necklace was never Mirabelle's, not truly. Objects, people, ideas only have power if we give it to them, and Mirabelle hadn't given this necklace much power - no power of sentiment and no power of meaning. To Mirabelle, it was just a necklace. It was no amulet against heartbreak or a symbol of her mother. The power was lost on Mirabelle.

"What was your mother's name?" Sansa quietly inquired. She tried to envision Sandor's mother - what she looked like, what her voice sounded like - and always she came up empty handed. Their mother was some unknowable creature; always present, yet formless, like a shadow.

"Mae. She went by Mae."

Mirabelle gave pause then as she smiled at some resurrected memory - a secret one meant to be shared only between mother and daughter, even after death. Sansa thought of her own mother, and she too smiled.

"She was the youngest of four children and the only girl," Mirabelle continued as the heaviness seemed to blessedly begin its retreat. "My grandmother had high hopes that she would be a dancer, so my mother's given name was Isadora, as in Isadora Duncan. My mother was graceful like a dancer, but a petite woman, and was never much into dancing, besides. She hated the name Isadora, so she went by her middle name, Mae."

 _A dancer._ Sansa fell in love with the idea of Sandor's mother being a dancer, although it wasn't the true vision of the woman.

"Mae. As in Mae West?" Sansa mused, delighted to speak of Sandor's mother, who had now captured her fascination.

"As in my great-grandmother, Mae. But yes, also Mae West," Mirabelle giggled softly.

The apparition of Sandor's mother was still something of an enigma, and that alone fueled the curiosity. She wanted more; wanted to ask all the questions tumbling wild about her mind, perhaps in the hope that she might forge a kindred connection to the woman she so desperately and inexplicably wanted to know. Shifting so that she was facing Mirabelle, Sansa indulged her curiosity.

"What was your mother like?"

 _Beautiful, I bet she was beautiful. A free spirit. Warm, lovely, quick to laugh and easy to love._ Once more, Sansa caught herself applying a template to Mirabelle's mother. It was then she noticed the silence. The  _heavy_  silence.

"From what I can remember and what I've been told, incredibly generous and kind. Gentle and warm. Soft-spoken and sweet, but very,  _very_  sad." Mirabelle sat up then, stretching her long limbs as she stared at the muddy ground in front of them.

"There was something always so incredibly tragic about her. Even I can remember that. My father used to say that life had the tendency of breaking her heart. She couldn't bear the thought of there being so much cruelty and suffering in the world."

Sansa's vision of a dancer - laughing and smiling and twirling - turned to dust in her mind, decaying away with each pirouette. What remained was a weeping woman with a broken soul, irreparably damaged from first breath.

"And Sandor was close to her?" Sansa asked, her voice scarcely above a whisper as she wondered how he fit into all of this.

"Very close," Mirabelle confirmed with an adamant nod of the head. "He wanted to protect her, always. Even when he was just a little boy, he wanted to combat whatever was perpetually breaking her heart, but no matter how hard she tried to be happy, she just couldn't. That was very difficult for Sandor. As a child, he didn't understand and thought that he wasn't doing enough to protect her from the sadness."

 _Fierce and protective even as a child._ Sansa marveled at that and felt her heart succumb to the onslaught of heaviness. It was inescapable. She wanted him here, with her, in this moment. She wanted to be wrapped up in his arms, to feel his voice vibrating against her as he spoke words, strong and reassuring, to her.

"You told me before that she died of a broken heart; that not being able to protect you or Sandor from Gregor tore her to pieces." Sansa leveled her eyes to Mirabelle, who seemed to be stirring with something as indescribable as it was unsettling. Although Sansa didn't quite form her curiosity into a question, Mirabelle had been preparing herself to answer; that was plain to see by the pained look straining the woman's face into strange contours.

"She…she went to sleep and never woke up," Mirabelle struggled as she spoke and occupied her hands by wringing them together softly. "That's the story my father stuck with all along; took it with him to the grave. I overheard him one night arguing with Gregor, and in his anger, my father shouted out that Gregor was the reason my mother committed suicide. You see, she did go to sleep and never woke up, just like my father told us, but she did that to herself. I never learned how she did it, but she took her own life, Sansa."

Mirabelle finished on a whisper as Sansa heard her own name leave the woman's lips as a gentle hiss of "S" sounds. The air seemed to turn cold around them, the warmth of life fleeing. Despite the glaring orb in the sky, the day was dark. So very dark. Sansa said nothing, although her mouth had fallen open, agape with shock and horror.

"I know why my father never told us," Mirabelle continued, her voice quiet and quavering with each breath. "It's hard to reconcile, even as an adult, a mother willingly taking herself from her children. And people must think 'What kind of mother does that? Only the bad kind, the selfish _._ ' But she wasn't a bad mother, and she wasn't selfish. I don't think my father could ever bear the thought of anyone thinking she was a terrible mother for leaving her children behind. I think my father was the only one who had a window into just how much pain she was in. And imagine the tremendous pain a person - a mother - would have to be in, to take her own life."

Like mother, like daughter, Mirabelle Clegane was broken. Sansa saw it now; the thin cracks, mortared over with rehearsed smiles and false words of happiness despite a hard life, were beginning to loosen and break away. And Sansa saw the same woman - weeping and fragile - living behind the façade of strength. Tears, steady and unashamed, streamed down Mirabelle's face as her lips quivered.

"I used to hate her for it," Mirabelle gasped through a sob, a child lost. "All the times Gregor was terrorizing the family, I would think about how she took the easy way out and left my father all alone to deal with the monster they created together. I have forgiven her, but it doesn't change the fact that I never really knew her. Sandor was the closest to her, and he knew instinctively as a child that her death was somehow related to all the sadness he saw in her. He never could protect her from that sadness, no matter how hard he tried, and that bothers him to this day."

Pulling the grieving woman into her arms, Sansa tried her best to soothe away the tears, shush the worries, and provide surrogate comfort the best she could. Not so long ago, Mirabelle did the same for her. Perhaps that was the ebb and flow of their friendship; the weaker one clinging to the stronger as the high tides of sorrow came pounding in.

Disentwining herself from Sansa's embrace, Mirabelle wiped away dissolved mascara from underneath her eyes as she once more mortared the cracks with a giggle and a sigh.

"The necklace is something Sandor has held onto," Mirabelle declared with a steady voice, her countenance fully reassembled. "Ever since the day she died, it has been the only object he has kept track of over the years. I don't think I need to elaborate any further for you to understand how  _huge_ it is that he's given it to you. I think you understand that now."

Mirabelle smiled at Sansa, a genuine smile that transcended whatever pain she had momentarily allowed herself to feel.

"I do," Sansa affirmed with an eager nod. "I completely do."

Lifting her hand, Sansa pressed her palm against the necklace and wondered if she was worthy of such a gift. She wasn't quite sure what she had done to deserve something that meant so much to him. It struck Sansa then how much she herself must mean to him, but then maybe that was just it. Perhaps giving Sansa the necklace was Sandor's way of consolidating some of the things in his life that meant something to him; matching them together to make sense of it all.

"Sandor never mentioned any of this to me," Sansa observed out loud.

"And he won't," Mirabelle responded with a shake of her head. "He keeps it pretty well under wraps."

Sansa nodded quietly. She knew as much. Mirabelle's cracks may be visible, but Sandor hid his and hid them well; ensured that they were never compromised by conjurings of past tragedies.

"Do you think…never mind." Shifting in her seat, Sansa stopped herself, her curiosity getting the better of her as she spoke without thinking. Still, the question burned on the tip of her tongue.

"No, go on. What were you going to say?" Mirabelle queried in her own flush of curiosity.

"You say all the cruelty and suffering in the world broke your mother's heart," Sansa began before pausing, trying to wrap her head around how she wanted to phrase her question. "How do you…I mean…what would she think if she knew that Sandor…is…well…" Faltering, her question was a jumbled disarray of pieced together thoughts, hardly a question at all.

"A mob boss," Mirabelle finished for her with a knowing smile. "I know he thinks about that too, wonders if she'd be disappointed in him."

Turning to Mirabelle, resilient and having found her voice, Sansa divulged her thoughts; thoughts she initially assumed would be best to keep to herself, but now, spurred on by Mirabelle's smile, she let the words spill from her lips.

"I ask because I thought about what you said yesterday; about what I would tell people if they asked how I met him, what I would say about what he does for a living. Well, he told me that he would like to open a boxing gym one day; that he'd like to train men how to fight."

Sansa was beaming. After tossing and turning last night, it had finally occurred to her that perhaps it wasn't all so bleak after all. Sandor could pursue something he was passionate about, something that didn't involve making a living out of being a criminal. In the darkness of night, the idea had blossomed to a fantasy in her mind; a waking dream she staved off sleep for. Even by the light of day, it hadn't lost any of its sweetness.  _It could be perfect,_ she thought to herself.

Mirabelle's own smile faded from her lips, seemingly washed away by Sansa's confession. Defensively, Mirabelle crossed her arms about her chest.

"Yeah, he's told me that too," the woman huffed as she eyed Sansa warily. "What of it?"

The heaviness returned as Sansa felt she was being watched through critical eyes; misspoken words could be dangerous, it seemed. Flustered, Sansa tried to explain herself the best she could, although she wasn't quite sure there was much she needed to explain. It all seemed rather obvious to her.

"I don't know," she replied meekly, shrinking away at the sudden and unpredictable shift in Mirabelle's mood. "Maybe he could do that. He wouldn't have to put himself in danger anymore, wouldn't have to hurt people. He could make your mother proud. He could live a  _normal_ life."

"A normal life," Mirabelle scoffed bitterly as she shook her head. "And what, exactly, is that? White picket fences, a minivan with 2.5 children, PTA meetings, dinner parties?"

Sansa was beginning to see her dreams dashed; dissolved away like sandcastles against a growing tide. Stubbornly, she held onto them, not willing to give up on the little piece of hope they provided to get her through the nights.

"Please don't mock me," Sansa responded calmly as she steeled herself. "You can't tell me that what Sandor does is normal or is what he really wants to be doing with his life. I can't imagine that he  _enjoys_  doing what he does."

Mirabelle leveled an icy stare towards Sansa, one quite sufficient at cutting through steel. For many moments of awkward silence, the woman studied Sansa; her eyes moved back and forth across Sansa's face as she betrayed nothing of her thoughts, not until she finally spoke.

"You say you see him for who he is, not what he does. I think you see my brother for who you think he can become, what you _want_  him to become, so that he can fit into this beautiful life you have dreamed up for yourself. You're trying to make him fit that mold when the reality is he just doesn't."

The words were spoken plainly enough, no harsh inflections or seething tones; however, the implications felt like a punch to the gut as Sansa let her mouth fall open.

"That's not fair, Mirabelle," she replied on something akin to a whimper, the silent accusations still stinging.

"No, it's not fair, Sansa," Mirabelle shot back defensively. "It's not fair for him, and it's not fair for you."

Sansa met Mirabelle's eyes with a disbelieving stare. Mistakenly, she had thought that of all people, Mirabelle would understand her plight.

"Am I supposed to be okay with knowing when he leaves he may be hurting someone, or he may get hurt himself? Am I supposed to be okay with never knowing if he's coming back or not?"

Mirabelle was looking back at her as if those were ridiculous questions with obvious answers, and it was then that Sansa knew she was, indeed, expected to be okay with all of it. She would have to learn to cope, figure out ways to survive in all the madness. That was the sort of strength Sansa never wished to possess; the callousness to turn a blind eye to all the pain and darkness the men of the Moriarti infused into the world.

"No one said it was going to be easy, but if you want him, then this is what your life is going to look like. Open your eyes, girl. The world isn't so simple. Haven't you seen that by now? Nothing comes wrapped up in a nice, pretty bow. It's ugly. It's hard. It's messy. You have to fight like hell for what you want; fight to get it and fight harder to keep it."

It was subtle, but Sansa felt the attack; the suggestion that she was still too naïve to understand the situation she had found herself in, as if she were still some floundering idiot.

"I am fighting," Sansa seethed back. "I've fought for my life, and now I'm fighting to maintain something of the person I used to be. I'm supposed to start college soon, pursue my own dreams. You can't blame me for wanting to be with him  _and_ wanting to go home eventually. I don't think that that's asking too terribly much."

Grabbing Sansa by the shoulders, Mirabelle roughly turned Sansa to face her. Sansa couldn't bear to look Mirabelle in the eyes, or perhaps she wasn't willing to give the woman that pleasure. Instead, she let her eyes remain downcast, defiantly staring off towards nothingness.

"That's what you don't get," Mirabelle urged as she shook Sansa by the shoulders as gently as her brazenness would allow her. "Home will never be the same for you.  _This_ is your home now. And Sandor's the closest thing you have to family right now. And you. You're his family too. That's what all of this is about, Sansa. My mother may be rolling in her grave at the thought of Sandor being a mob boss, but you can bet your ass she's proud of what he's done with the hand he's been dealt. He's survived, Sansa, and so have I. And you too. Thislife took me and my brother in when we had nowhere else to go, no one to turn to. We sure as shit didn't choose it, but what other options do you think we had? The real world didn't fucking care about two orphaned kids; if it did, I wouldn't have been sent to a foster family to get molested and raped by my foster father. This organization is  _our_ family,  _our_  home."

Having said what she needed to say, Mirabelle slowly released her grip from Sansa's shoulders and took a deep breath to calm herself. When Sansa finally lifted her eyes, she knew that the  _'our'_  wasn't meant to include just Mirabelle and Sandor; it now included her too.

"You make it sound as if I can't have both; Sandor and my own life," Sansa snorted on a feigned laugh, one which spoke to her exasperation, if nothing else.

Mirabelle turned a regretful stare towards Sansa, her eyes now softened with a bit of sympathy.

"A time will come when you'll have to choose," Mirabelle spoke quietly and with some reserve. "It may not be today, and maybe it won't be tomorrow, but no one lasts long with one foot in the door and one foot out."

Just like that, Sansa watched as her dreams - unrealistic and naive as they may have been - slipped through her fingers.  _I won't choose. I can't choose. He won't make me choose._

Mirabelle lifted herself from her seat and retreated away, saying nothing more as Sansa sat in a silence, heavy and suffocating. She didn't look back as Mirabelle left, but she heard as the woman seemed to stop short of the sliding glass door.

 _"_ Life isn't like a kaleidoscope, my dear girl. You don't look through the lens to filter out all the ugliness and transform it into something beautiful. But I think you'll find there's beauty, even in darkness."

Sansa didn't bother with a reply. For now, she found no beauty in this day which was so dark. And so very heavy.

* * *

All the way up the 101, the kid had been chattering incessantly as he regaled Sandor with stories obviously meant to be impressive: the time a bullet went whizzing a few inches by his head, the incident when he had to save Vinny's life, the rumble he had with a rival street gang. They were dick measuring tales, ones made men exchanged to impress the others. However, the implicit understanding amongst most made men was that they could never engage Sandor in this frivolity of male insecurity. No, Sandor Clegane had his own stories; stories which would put theirs to shame and make them look like fucking pussies in comparison.

That understanding was lost on E.Z. as he sat in the passenger seat- chest puffed out and head held high- while he sought, in yet another way, to out-man the fearsome Hound.

With a knowing half-smile, Sandor listened and pretended to be impressed as he watched with dark amusement. On and on it went; E.Z. stupidly unaware of the hole he was digging himself into and Sandor morbidly aware of what fate lay ahead for this kid.

"Sounds like you've been sent on a lot of assignments," Sandor commented, his voice smooth and calm. "When were you made?"

"Shit, about a year ago, I'd say," E.Z. answered back, his arrogance reaching a fever pitch as he smiled, assured, to himself.

"For someone only made a year ago, you've seen a lot of action." Sandor kept his stare towards the road ahead of them, careful that the fire burning behind his eyes was kept to himself, for now. The kid's cockiness functioned like kerosene to that fire- steadily nursing the flames of his anger until the intensity grew from smoldering to raging.

"Fuck man, I'm a champ under fire! Vinny has seen it, and you'll see it today," E.Z. absurdly answered, his hands gesturing to emphasize each word. "I live for this shit: riding out, not knowing how it's all going to go down, not knowing how many motherfuckers you're going to smoke. Fuck, I love it."

Settling back in his seat, E.Z. relished in his own conceit, soaking it in and letting it sustain itself. With his stare cutting discreetly towards the kid, Sandor watched him and relished in his own right, except it wasn't conceit he was soaking up. It was darker; sinister and calculated. He had a plan for this kid, and the fucker was too self-involved to understand what a mess he was getting himself into just by opening his mouth.

"I saw you talking to the Stark girl," Sandor interjected into the silence, knowing full well this would be the fire starter to an explosion of his rage. He didn't care.

"Fuck, man! That bitch is fine," E.Z. asserted with enthusiasm. "Tits, ass, and those lips. Those are dick sucking lips," the kid groaned, almost primal.

"Yeah. You like that, don't you?" Sandor spurred him on, each word soaked in venom.

"What I'd really like is to bury my dick into her, but I mean, let's be honest. Who wouldn't?"

Casually settled back in his seat, E.Z. swiveled a lascivious smile towards Sandor, clearly thinking this would be some sort of male bonding conversation. They'd both talk about all the things they'd like to do to Sansa Stark, laugh about it, and then carry on.

Fighting like mad to keep up this charade, Sandor just shrugged his shoulders, keeping his stare straight ahead as his fingers wrapped tighter around the steering wheel.

"Wait," E.Z. broke in. "Have you hit it? I mean, you can't tell me you've spent all this time alone with her and you haven't hit it."

Although he dare not shift his eyes lest they give him away, Sandor knew with a certainty the kid was staring at him with some devious smile painted across his tanned face.

"Haven't had that pleasure," Sandor growled through clenched teeth.

"Damn, dude!" E.Z. exclaimed, seemingly mystified by Sandor's response. "If I were you, I would have fucked her. She's all scared and alone and relying on you. Perfect for persuading her to spread her legs."

With his vision blurring to red, Sandor had heard enough. Turning the wheel, he pulled off on some old, dusty road tucked amongst the fold of the landscape. The cars with the rest of the men carried on up the Redwood Highway. From the corner of his eye, Sandor could see E.Z. stir beside him, his back pulling away from his seat as his head swiveled towards the retreating sight of the main road.

"Are we taking a different way?" he queried on a heavy breath, his gaze shifting between Sandor and the back window.

Sandor remained silent, content to let the gravel crunching beneath the tires fill the void between him and E.Z. He knew if he spoke, his words would come out as enraged non-sense. Unfazed by Sandor's lack of response, E.Z. kept the questions coming; each becoming more adamant than the last.

"Boss, the rest of the men kept going. Shouldn't we stick with them?"

Having taken in the sight of thick forestry flanking either side of the lonely road, E.Z. shifted in his seat and turned to face Sandor full on.

"Where are we going?" His voice was fractured now with worry, his chest deflated, and his cocksure smile was wiped clean off of his face.

Pulling to the side of the road, Sandor slowed to a stop and threw the car into park before turning off the engine. He mustered all the composure he could as he undid his seat belt and reached for the pistol tucked in his pants.

"Get out of the car," Sandor demanded with a deep growl as he finally settled a glare onto E.Z. The boy's eyes had widened and seemed to bulge out of his skull. Shifting his stare out the window, E.Z.'s lips coiled in something between bewilderment and fear.

"What? Here? You can't be serious. What's going on, man?" The kid squirmed in his seat, pressing his back against the car door as he instinctively put as much space between himself and Sandor as possible.

Lifting his pistol, Sandor pointed it towards the kid as he tried to steady his hands from shaking. Blinded by rage, he couldn't see straight, but somehow his mind understood what he was doing; it knew exactly the words to say, and working in conjunction with his mouth, knew how to say them so that they did not betray the true chaos of his fury.

"Get the fuck out of the car. I won't tell you again." Sandor's tone came even, and his words were deliberately marked; painstakingly spoken with an emphasis on darkness. Inside, though, was mania; a beast come alive with bloodthirsty desires.

E.Z. complied and did exactly as he was told, while Sandor carefully followed his movements with the pistol. Once they both were out of the car, E.Z., wide-eyed and looking like a child, turned towards Sandor.

"Wh-what are you doing?" he stammered, all of his previous confidence entirely lost and leaving the shell of a boy behind.

"Get your hands up and walk," Sandor demanded as he motioned his head towards the thickness of forest beyond the side of the road.

Turning slowly, E.Z. shakily lifted his hands in the air and began working his way through the trees, each step hesitant and careful.

"Look, boss. I don't know what I did, but please, just tell me what's going on," the kid mewled with a voice that cracked. He sounded like a twelve-year-old- scared and stupid. Sandor laughed to himself at that, finding a strange sort of amusement in how easily this kid folded.

"Shut the fuck up and keep walking," Sandor growled as he pressed the end of his gun against the back of E.Z.'s head. "Another word out of you and a bullet is going into your skull."

As they continued walking down a gradual slope of a hill, Sandor could see the kid shaking; his shoulders and arms quivered, and his steps were becoming clumsy. Sandor scanned the view of the forest in front of them as he gauged their distance from the road. They were deep enough in that Sandor knew they wouldn't be spotted by any chance traveler driving down the gravel road.

"This ditch up ahead, stop in front of it," Sandor commanded. E.Z. sucked in a shaky breath before exhaling on an audible sigh as he did what he was told and stopped in front of the ditch.

"Get on your knees, and keep your hands up where I can see them." Once more, Sandor followed the kid's movements with his pistol as E.Z. stumbled to his knees.

Slowly, Sandor paced around until he was in front of him and finally glimpsed the entirety of the kid's fear. The face looking back at Sandor was one of a scared little boy, hardly the face of a man. His brown eyes were glazed with a watery sheen suggesting the prelude of tears. He had a baby face; his features still rounded and child-like. Sandor doubted the kid even owned a razor, seeing as how it appeared he could barely grow facial hair. His dark hair was styled in some ridiculous fashion, and he was wearing boatloads of cologne, the scent offensive and acrid. He looked like a member of the Italian version of the Backstreet Boys.

Leaning forward, Sandor pulled free the kid's pistol before shoving it in his own back pocket. The kid shivered at Sandor's touch as fear seemed to ripple through him.  _'_ Good _,'_ Sandor thought to himself,  _'_ be fucking scared of me _._ ' Feasting on the boy's fear, Sandor pressed the end of his gun against E.Z.'s forehead, which was coated in a layer of sweat.

"You took vows when initiated into myorganization. Say them. If you fuck up, I'll take something from you."

"But…but I don't have anything for you to take," the kid stammered as he lifted an imploring stare to Sandor with eyes that pleaded for mercy.

Sandor watched him for a moment, studying his face and those eyes; those hopeless eyes, which looked like those of a child. With a free hand, Sandor pulled a buck knife from his pocket and gave a firm flick of his wrist to unburden it from the casing.

"Yeah you do," he taunted with a devious smile forming across his lips. "Now start."

The boy squeezed his eyes shut. His lips distorted into a shape of terror. It was a task Sandor himself didn't even know that he could do. Every made man understood what vows not to break. It was instilled in them from the day they were made- born again by blood and brotherhood. Yet those words were never spoken again after a man was made. They were silent words that never needed saying, but E.Z. tried. The kid started as the blade of the buck knife continually caught the light of the sun infiltrating through the leafy canopy of the trees.

"Si-si-silence. Omertá, above all else. We…we honor it, live by it, di-die by it."

The boy faltered. His eyes darted back and forth in his head, chasing the memories of the words he spoke just a year ago. Sandor pushed the gun harder into the boy's forehead as his fingers tightened around the hilt of his knife.

"Truth. T-t-t-tell the tr-truth. No…no associations with anyone but made men. Except…if…they're a fr-friend of ours. A made man's woman…she…she is s-s-sacred to him. Don't betray the sanctity. Do not disrespect the wo-women."

Like blood in the water, Sandor's anger flared as the words spilled from the boy's mouth. Darkness stirred inside of him, coursing through his veins with a sensation that was both troubling and exhilarating.

"That one," he rasped as he lowered himself to a crouching position in front of the kid. "That vow. Say it again," Sandor growled, his face hovering inches away from E.Z.'s.

Perhaps in the delirium of fear, the boy hadn't yet put it all together. By the way his eyes pleaded with Sandor, E.Z. must have decided this was a cruel joke, or perhaps a hazing of sorts. The kid's words came out a jumbled mess of disjointed thoughts.

"A man's woman…do not…she's sacred…don't disrespect." Two tears trailed down the kid's cheeks and rolled beneath his chin.

"Who made you?" Sandor demanded on a deep groan.

"Bronn did, sir," the kid answered back eagerly and, seemingly, with the fleeting hope that this may be the end of his ordeal.

"Fuck your, sirs!" Sandor bellowed out. "They'll get you nowhere with me, you little shit. Did Bronn tell you what happens when you mess with another made man's woman like you were messing with mine today?"

Realization bloomed across E.Z.'s face, but was immediately replaced with panic. All those cocky words, arrogant retorts, and lustful smiles directed towards Sansa seemed to flood the boy's mind. The horror at that remembrance sent the kid into a shrieking frenzy, the primal fight for his life as he scampered forward on hands and knees to appease the Hound.

"I...I…I had no idea. Please! I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said in the car.  _Please_ , boss, plea-"

Pulling away from the kid and standing up, Sandor pointed the gun in the air and fired, the sound echoing through the trees and rending the kid shocked into silence. E.Z. had fallen to the ground; his head nestled amongst pine needles and old, dried-up leaves. Grabbing him by the front of the shirt, Sandor pulled the kid back up to his knees and shoved the barrel of the gun into the kid's mouth.

"You meant it," he seethed out on a roar- his voice hardly sounding like his own, but rather more like some demon from hell. "I'm not fucking blind or stupid. Say it again, fucker. Say it because you meant it."

As the boy gagged on the pistol, a strange jolt of delight pierced through the mania of Sandor's anger. The barrel, still scorching from having been fired, was burning the kid's lips and tongue. Tears spilled freely from the boy's eyes now. As he wept with a gun shoved in his mouth, Sandor buzzed with a rush of adrenaline- the darkness seeping into his skin and settling in his bones. He donned it like a well-worn piece of armor; one which he hadn't worn in years, but still fit like a glove. Whatever compassion Sandor Clegane possessed was nowhere to be seen, but even in his bloodthirsty state of mind, Sandor knew this went beyond his typical ruthlessness. This was something else entirely.

"SAY IT!" he screamed, his face burning red and his eyes wide with a horrific rage.

"I said…I said…that I wanted to have sex with her." E.Z.'s voice was almost indiscernible as his lips wrapped and unwrapped around the barrel with the shape of each word.

"No. That's not what you said," Sandor raged, his finger settling on the trigger.

"I said I wanted to bury my dick in her." The kid was shaking violently, the force wracking through his shoulders, legs, and torso. E.Z. struggled to stay on his knees; his body was weak with terror and the ground was calling for him.

"And what about her lips? What the fuck was it you said about those?" Sandor demanded as he grabbed E.Z. by the hair and yanked him up, forcing the kid to look at him, although the boy's eyes were squeezed shut.

"Dick sucking," E.Z. choked out as he began to sob now.

"You said those things about  _my_ girl," Sandor yelled out, his chest heaving and burning with each wild breath.

Blind with wrath and thoughts that weren't even his own, visions flashed across his mind: another man's hands were on her- touching her, feeling her, lips tasting what was his, and enjoying her body in a way Sandor hadn't yet. She smiled for this man, moaned for him, came for him.  _'Mine. She's mine,'_  he screamed in his own mind.  _Do it. Pull the trigger. Do it._ As Sandor went to squeeze the trigger, E.Z. opened his eyes. With the boy looking up at him, it was Sandor who faltered now. He had killed before, but never like this; not with the person on their knees staring back at him.  _If you do this, it will haunt you. Those eyes will haunt you._ The silent thoughts were spoken in Sansa's voice- sweet and solemn. In the end, it wasn't mercy that spared the kid's life.

* * *

"This is a fucking joke," Sandor murmured as he leaned over to Bronn, seated adjacent to him at the small table situated in the back corner of the restaurant. The thick panes of glass looked out onto the harbor of Crescent City and the long, sea-battered dock where yuppies moored their vessels to dine at probably the fanciest joint in town. Although it was in the middle of the day, the café was cast into shadows by the dimmed light, which bounced feebly off the dark red walls. Trying to occupy themselves during the mid-afternoon lull in business, waiters and waitresses wandered about in pressed white shirts stuffed into creased black pants. The velveteen timbre of Frank Sinatra's voice flowed like liquid from speakers discreetly placed throughout the restaurant.

"What do you mean?" Bronn responded with a soft smile as he leaned towards Sandor, anticipating being let in on some joke.

"I feel like I'm in a goddamn mobster movie with this shit." Sipping from his Manhattan, Sandor lifted his eyes over the rim of the glass and studied the near-empty room until his eyes settled once more on the front door. Damian was late; not very late, but it still grinded on Sandor's patience.

"You want to tell me what happened with E.Z.?" Bronn intoned hesitantly as he wiped away beads of condensation from his beer glass.

"I put the fear of God into him," Sandor replied quietly, his eyes flickering once more towards the door as it opened. An old man and his wife wandered in, dressed in their Sunday best.

"You did more than that, I'd say." Bronn chuckled before taking a gulp of his amber-colored drink.

 _I almost murdered him execution-style in the middle of the Redwood forest._ Sandor kept that to himself, not entirely certain why he felt compelled to do so. It's not as if he'd be confessing this to a fucking priest. Sandor was pretty damn sure Bronn had  _almost_ done many egregious things in his day.

Sandor had been enraged before, many of times, but never like that. It took on a force of its own- unstoppable and damn near uncontrollable. Like a man possessed by his own rage, he would have pulled the trigger, and worse than that, would have felt satisfied doing so. Now that he could finally see straight, Sandor was annoyed to find he was troubled by the entire situation. It wasn't shame he felt. He wasn't ashamed of what he did, or rather, what he  _almost_ did. The kid was fine- scared shitless, but fine nonetheless. No, it was something else that was coloring his entire mood in shades of grey.

Perhaps if he had lashed out immediately in anger, he could write it off as being impassioned to rage in the heat of the moment. That wasn't what happened though. He had been cold and had calculated the situation, baited the kid into a self-incriminating conversation, and then taunted E.Z. with the promise of his own blood-and-brain soaked death. Sandor's rage had taken on its own sort of darkness- a darkness he knew existed within him and one he tried to keep in check. Yet when the darkness came, he relished it. It had felt good. In fact, it felt fucking fantastic. Then the realization had come that that same darkness existed in Gregor, and Sandor imagined that perhaps his brother felt the same way when he committed unspeakable acts of evil. The difference though, or so Sandor had to tell himself, was that Gregor would have pulled the trigger.

Drawing him from his own thoughts was the front door swinging open, which he saw from the periphery of his downcast stare. As Damian crossed the threshold past the hostess' podium, Sandor and Bronn lifted themselves from their seats to offer the typical business-style courtesy. It was a stupid formality, but Alberto had warned Sandor early on that it was best not to allow any room for associates to take offense, even if that offense was entirely fabricated in the paranoia of their own mind. Damian slowly traversed the room, swaying side-to-side in an almost laughable strut. How anyone took him seriously as a cop, Sandor had no idea. From his white linen shirt, casually unbuttoned halfway down the front with matching white pants, to his wrist adorned with a Rolex, the man's entire demeanor screamed "wanna-be gangsta".

Still, Sandor offered a curt nod of the head by way of greeting and shook the man's hand as he approached the table. In the dim light, Damian's mocha-colored skin looked two shades darker, and his eyes shone like onyx- deep and unsettling. With a shaved head, the man showcased two diamond studs situated in either ear. A white smile snaked across his lips, which were encased amongst a carefully manicured mustache and goatee. He wasn't a particularly tall man, probably average height, but he was swathed in sinewy layers of muscle.

All three settled in their seats, and after the waitress took Damian's drink order, warily eyed one another from across the table.

"What the hell is going on today?" Sandor finally spoke as he nodded his head towards the front door and the obscured streets beyond. "When we rolled into the town, the main drag was full of people and vendor's booths."

"Some sort of street festival they have every summer," Damian replied, his voice deceptively warm. "Music, carnival games, food. All the shit that the white folk seem to fucking love."

Laughing into his cocktail glass, Damian shook his head.

"Pulling the race card so soon," Bronn shot back, his venom towards this particular person thinly veiled even for someone as laid back as Bronn. "That isn't the reason why you're on 'administrative leave' right now, is it?"

" _Naaaw_ , man," Damian snorted out a laugh as he steadied his serpent-like eyes towards Bronn. "I got sent out on a call for a domestic dispute. Some dude was beating on his bitch. I got into a gun fight with him and put a bullet between his eyes. Apparently, I shouldn't have shot to kill."

Sandor narrowed his eyes at Damian and watched as the man brought his vodka tonic to his lips once more.

"Let me guess," Sandor rasped. "This guy just happened to be a member of either the Norteños or the Brotherhood."

Shrugging his shoulders, Damian flashed a toothy smile- assured and proud.

"One less skin-head wandering around isn't necessarily a bad thing," he mused darkly as he lifted his eyes towards Sandor.

Sandor held his stare, studying the turbulence behind Damian's inky eyes. The mistrust was mutual, Sandor realized then.

"Well, I didn't come here to talk about your beef with the white man. I want everything you've got on Ned Stark," Sandor declared flatly and betrayed nothing, or so he hoped, of his growing misgivings in dealing with Damian.

Rubbing his hands together, Damian sat up in his seat and pressed his forearms against the edge of the table as he lowered his voice. Sandor suppressed a laugh. The old couple, feeding each other calamari three tables behind Damian, wasn't likely to hear a goddamn thing. Still, Sandor steadied his stare on Damian and listened intently.

"Ned Stark has been in touch with the Portland P.D. almost constantly, looking for leads on his daughter. He told them from the beginning he thought the Severelli were involved somehow, that the Royce party incident had to be some sort of retaliation for Nestor spilling his guts about the Moriarti case. Ned's a smart man, I give him that, but he's too fucking trusting and assumes the best in people. It never occurred to him that there are dirty cops within the Portland P.D.; ones whose payroll comes from the Severelli crime family. Shit, I can tell you every motherfucker on the Portland P.D. that gets a nice little bonus of cartel money coming through the Severelli."

Damian chuckled bitterly as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit up. Billows of smoke poured from his nostrils and slightly parted lips as he stared across the table.

"So what does that mean?" Sandor countered impatiently. "The investigation into the Royce massacre is fucked too?"

"As far as I know, yes," Damian replied with a shrug of the shoulders as he ashed his cigarette. "The initial lead investigator was pulled off of the case early on with no warning and no explanation. From what I understand, that's been kept quiet within the department. Not many people, Stark included, know about that. The case fell into the hands of a man who, I'm pretty damn sure, is being paid off by the Severelli. The Royce massacre had been in the works for awhile, whether Nestor knew it or not, and I'm thinking he didn't. It would have been an attempt to frame up your organization for the shit that went down at the party. It would have served the dual purpose of the Severelli exerting their control over Royce as well as giving Ned Stark even more fodder for his case."

Damian stopped momentarily, smiling to himself, before he motioned his head towards Sandor. "And your dumbass just had to be there that night so it would have worked, except Ned already knew that Nestor had gotten in deep with the Severelli. That was Nestor's mistake for letting that information slip. It makes more sense that the massacre was retaliatory, and essentially it was, but it didn't go off quite as planned.

From what I understand, it's been a slow and painstaking process to ID the victims. The house is just a pile of ashes right now and the victims just a bunch of fucking burnt bodies. Until the dead are sorted out, the Severelli only know of two people who got away that night: the Stark girl and her friend. And that friend is dead, many thanks to you." Damian pointed the cherry-embered end of his cigarette towards Sandor with a mocking laugh.

"Don't fuck with me, Damian," Sandor warned on a bark louder than he intended. The wrinkled faces of the old couple swiveled towards him with matching mouths agape in shock.

"My point is the crime scene was a mess from the beginning. I mean, how the fuck are you supposed to ID that many bodies when they're burned like that? Regardless of the crime scene being a mess, the case has been botched. The entire investigation is mismanaged, with or without the Severelli doing their damnedest to influence it. Then you have the fucking district attorney up Portland P.D.'s ass about his missing daughter and wife."

Sandor and Bronn's heads snapped up in unison as they both exchanged bewildered stares.

"Woah, woah, woah!" Bronn exclaimed, leaning against the table and towards Damian. "Wait a second. Catelyn Stark is dead."

"Not until her body is ID'd," Damian replied calmly with a knowing smile, one which suggested he was anticipating this reaction. "Until then, Ned Stark is going to keep on thinking she's alive somewhere. It's the same story with everyone else whose family, friends, or co-workers were at that party."

"What about Sansa?" Bronn pushed further, his voice incredulous. "He can't be sure she's not dead either."

"According to my connections in Portland, Ned has received two calls since his daughter went missing. The first one was a missed call the night of the party, shortly after shit started going down. The second call was a few days later. She left a voicemail."

Sandor felt himself bristle at that, his mind racing to figure out exactly when she would have had access to a phone. Suddenly, the waitress appeared at the table with three glossy menus and an overtly effervescent disposition.

"Do you gentlemen need to see some menus?" the waitress interrupted with a smile as she shifted her eyes around the table.

"No, love. I think we'll be fine," Bronn responded quickly with a wry smile. Nodding her head, the waitress retreated away, the hope of an expensive table and the matching tip having been dashed.

Clearing his throat and sitting up in his seat, Sandor settled his stare towards Damian who was already looking back at him with a devious smile. The man was watching Sandor carefully and had been the entire time he was here.

"You don't honestly think I didn't know about the Stark girl, right? You've done a piss-poor job of covering up the fact that she's in your possession." Damian settled back in his seat, satisfied as he puffed on his cigarette and waited for Sandor's response.

Sandor curled his fingers tightly around his cocktail glass as his thoughts turned into a slew of curses. Of course Damian knew. The man had connections to damn-near every crime syndicate up and down the west coast, the Severelli included. There was no point in denying Sansa's place in all of this. The most Sandor could do was extract as much information from Damian as possible.

"What did Sansa say to Ned in the voicemail?" Sandor inquired on a steady voice.

"It sounded like she was in trouble," Damian retorted with contentment. "And then a man's voice came on the phone. Told Ned Stark to pick up the call next time."

Sandor stared down into his whiskey glass as his brow furrowed with contemplation. Sansa hadn't spoken of this, never divulged this particular bit of information. It bothered him, although he knew it shouldn't. It's not as though this information was going to change anything about her situation. Still, if she was keeping this detail from him, what else had she failed to mention?

"Gregor," Sandor declared on a rasp as he finally lifted his head. "The man's voice was my brother."

Bronn stiffened in the seat beside him, the mention of Gregor amplifying the intensity of an already tense conversation. Silence descended upon the men, Gregor's looming presence invoked by the mere mention of his name.

"I don't know, man," Damian finally broke in on a sigh and with a shrug of his shoulders. "But it sure as fuck lit a fire underneath Ned's ass. He wanted to go to the media with it, get the story out there to anyone who may have seen Sansa."

Sandor nodded his head, understanding Ned's desire to do that. What else was the man supposed to do? Sit back and wait for the Portland P.D. to come up with something? No, Ned was taking matters into his own hands, and Sandor had to respect him for it.

"Why didn't he go to the media?" Bronn asked quietly.

"He would have, but Portland P.D. told him to get out of town; to keep looking for her, but to get the fuck out of Dodge."

"And why would they do that?" Bronn pressed, his skepticism of Damian glaring despite his attempts to hide it.

"It's a complicated situation the Severelli are in right now," Damian informed matter-of-factly, unfazed by Bronn's glowering from across the table. "If the FBI gets wind that the Royce massacre could have some mafia ties, then they're going to be all over it. As soon as the FBI takes over, the Severelli's ties to the investigation are cut and they lose control. Not only that, but they'd probably be indicted. The last thing they need is a grieving father and district attorney, no less, going to the fucking media about this shit."

Sandor and Bronn nodded their heads in unison. Damian snorted a laugh, the sound swathed in plumes of thin, grey smoke.

"Pretty little white girl gone missing," he began again with a shake of the head. "Shit man. The media would have a fucking field day with that. Every motherfucker up and down the west coast would be looking for her. Naw, man. The Severelli don't want that. They want Ned Stark off the radar, but they also want to find Sansa. No one is going to look harder for her than her old man and they know that. They'll take advantage of that for as long as they can. Any leads he gets, anything he comes up with, he's on the phone with Portland and all that information is getting funneled back to the Severelli and your brother." Staring from beneath his eyelashes and across the table, Damian nodded his head towards Sandor before beginning again.

"Ned agreed to leave town because he thought it wasn't safe for him. Portland put a tracker on his car and bugged his phone before he left Portland. Every move he makes is being tracked. They think if anyone has a chance of leading them straight to Sansa, it's him."

Damian settled in his seat as he nonchalantly disclosed these details. Sandor watched him; studied each sly smile, every shifty stare, and the way his eyes were alight with a strange sense of amusement. He seemed to soak up Sandor and Bronn's reaction to this information and relish in the delight of knowing just how deeply in the dark Sandor had been about this entire situation.

"And why is Sansa so important in all of this?" Sandor intoned deeply. "If they want Ned Stark dead, why don't they just off him and be done with it?"

"They will eventually," Damian chuckled with a cocksure smile. "The cartel ties with the Severelli have been strained over the past couple of years. A case against the Severelli- one in which the cartel's involvement with the organization would be uncovered- is a huge liability to the cartel. They don't want to be roped up in that shit. They're putting the pressure on the Severelli to get rid of Ned and Sansa."

"But the girl didn't do anything," Bronn interjected heatedly, his vigor seemingly coming out of nowhere. "What does it matter?"

"As it stands right now, she's the only witness to what went down. The cartel is only happy when all of this bullshit is finally swept under the rug and taken care of. If the cartel is happy, the Severelli are happy. And paid too."

Damian's eyes found Sandor once more, his countenance scrutinizing. Sandor met the man's eyes, and he saw what he often saw in Damian. It was devious and conniving. Damian was a wild card, a man whose alliances were always shifting. Perhaps that's how he meant for things to be; that way no one would ever truly know where to place him. He was an enigma of the worst kind; a question mark whose answer was constantly changing.

"That's not all of it though," Sandor growled, agitated and regretting his decision to pull Damian into the mix.

"Smart man," Damian retorted with a look of surprise flashing across his face before disappearing quickly. "You know your brother well. No, that's not all of it, and you already know why."

_Blood knows blood._

"He knows he can get to me through Sansa."

Sandor knew as much already. He knew Gregor would read between the lines and ask himself why his brother would put himself and his men in danger, all for an eighteen-year-old girl. Sandor had given up the ghost as soon as he set out to get Sansa back. He had known that all along, and he didn't care. It was a small price to pay for her in the end.

"You've already demonstrated that wherever Sansa is, you won't be too far behind. I think you already know it'd be your brother's greatest pleasure to not only kill you, but to take away someone that obviously means something to you, to make you watch while he does whatever fucked up things he wants with the girl."

Sandor saw it then- Damian's own perverse pleasure flashing wild in his sooty eyes. Once more, he wasn't telling Sandor something he didn't already know, but this was a fear Sandor had tried to hide; tried to bury away and never look at for fear if he did, it would come to life. And now Damian was shoving his face in it, making him look at that fear and accept that it was indeed a rational fear; one which could very well come to fruition, regardless of how he tried to ignore it.

"What do you suggest we do about all of this shit?" Bronn queried as he crossed his arms defensively across his chest.

Damian stared down towards the ashtray as he put out his cigarette. Mirroring Bronn's protective body language, the man folded his own arms against his chest as he spoke.

"I don't know that there's anything you can do. Ned Stark needs to quit talking to Portland. The sooner he cuts his ties with them, the better."

Shady as Damian may be, Sandor had to agree with the man on that tip. "They'll know what's going on if he does that," Sandor replied.

"Possibly," Damian mused casually. "But the man truly needs to fall off the map and quit shouting through the streets for his daughter."

"He's not going to do that," Sandor broke in abruptly with a shake of the head. Although he had never truly met Ned Stark before, he imagined he understood the man's motivations when it came to Sansa, frantic and inadvertently dangerous as they may be.

"Not unless he knows she's alive and being taken care of." Damian's lips pulled into a full smile, his teeth shining a bright white against the darkness of his skin and his eyes, which remained heavily on Sandor.

"What exactly are you getting at?" Bronn demanded with a rumble, clearly having had enough of this meeting. "You want Sandor to talk to him? Have a heart to heart with her old man?"

Rolling his eyes, Bronn ran both of his hands through his hair as he took a deep breath to calm himself. Sandor peeled his stare away from Damian and settled a reassuring gaze onto Bronn.

"He's right," Sandor agreed quietly. "Ned's a liability to himself and to Sansa right now, and the bastard doesn't even know it."

Damian and Sandor stared at one another from across the table; their eyes the only weapons they had against the other as they tossed daggers back and forth with icy glares and heated glowers. Finally, Damian spoke as he settled back in his seat, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair and his fingers steepled in front of him.

"You're already here, and you can bet your ass Ned is going to be wandering about the fucking streets today, handing out flyers and asking about his daughter. He's been doing it everywhere he goes. This might be your chance to educate the man on his missteps."

Averting his eyes from Damian, Sandor pressed his whiskey glass between the palms of his hands. The ice had melted, leaving behind a watered-down version of his cocktail. He knew something like this was bound to happen. Ned Stark was stubborn and steadfast with business, why would he be any different when it came to his family? Only now, the man's determination was working against him, and his blind trust in the Portland P.D. was absurd given all he knew about Royce's involvement with the Severelli. Whatever misgivings Sandor had about facing Ned Stark needed to be set aside for now. The man needed to be privy to what was going on, for his own sake as well as Sansa's.

"Okay," Sandor finally replied, lifting a resolute stare towards Damian. "Where do I find him?"

Damian cracked a smile and once more rubbed his hands together in some gesture of delight. Whatever amusement he was getting out of this situation was lost on Sandor. However, the sentiment was spoken clearly enough; Damian stood to gain something from Sandor's interaction with Ned. What exactly that was, Sandor did not know and probably cared not to know.

"My man Maurice has been keeping an eye on him. He'll let me know when Stark is on the move."

"And until then?" Bronn questioned, the doubts fracturing through his voice. Even though Sandor had kept his stare predominantly on Damian throughout this conversation, he knew Bronn's uneasiness was plain to see. He could feel it. It filled the air with a distinct heaviness.

"We wait," Sandor answered before draining the contents of his drink, savoring the diluted warmth that spread down his chest.

* * *

They waited for two hours in some antique store parking lot at the end of the main drag in town. The owners had closed up shop hours before, probably to attend this street festival. In the hazy humidity of the late afternoon, music filtered through the streets from blocks away and filled the heaviness of silence that settled amongst the men. E.Z. had situated himself as far away from Sandor as possible. With a thousand-mile-away stare, the kid already looked battle-worn as he leaned his back against Damian's white SUV. Zulu watched him warily, seemingly sizing the kid up with an incriminating glare. Sandor smiled at this, drawing parallels between Zulu's would-be loyalty and his own. The other men were antsy and had resorted to pacing back and forth in turns, kicking up dust and bits of sand as they did.

When the call finally came in, Sandor could have sworn the men stiffened in unison as seven pairs of eyes snapped towards Damian, who casually pulled his iphone out of his pocket. Swiping at the screen, Damian pressed the phone to his ear.

"What's up, man?" Damian muttered into the phone on a smooth voice as he lifted his gaze to Sandor and gave a nod, silently indicating that Maurice was indeed on the other line.

Damian fell into a silence as he crossed an arm about his chest and nodded his head in response to whatever Maurice was telling him.

"Aight, playa. Keep an eye on him and call me if he's on the move again." Without another word, Damian pressed his thumb against the screen and shoved the phone into his pocket.

"He's down the street from us," Damian declared as he motioned his head towards the road expanding north from them. "Just like I said, he's at this damn festival trying to get the word out about Sansa."

Resting his hands on his hips and staring off towards the distant sound of music, Sandor cursed beneath his breath. The thought of maneuvering through a crowd was troubling and posed potential dangers. Then again, he could blend into a crowd; disappear amongst the hordes of people until he found what he was looking for.

Same as always, the men were looking at Sandor. All eyes were on him now, waiting for him to hand out orders. A part of Sandor didn't want to; he wanted to tell them to figure it out for themselves while he dealt with Ned Stark on his own. Many times, he had felt that way, had wanted to retreat back into the brooding isolation that felt natural to his being. In the end, the sight of all those men looking to him for answers had been too much to ignore, so he stepped up to the plate time and time again. One of these days, though, he may just leave them to sort shit out amongst themselves as he slipped away, possibly for good. However, today was not that day.

"Damian, take Zulu and E.Z. and wait at the other end of this festival on the north side," Sandor commanded as he shunned his propensity to work alone and effortlessly slipped into the role that was needed of him now.

Sandor swept his gaze towards the rest of Vinny's men waiting patiently for their command, each chomping at the bit for some action, although Sandor hoped this particular outing wouldn't deliver in that regard. He needed this to go smoothly and with as little excitement as possible. Ned Stark was like a frightened animal right now; any sudden movements, flashing of weapons, or misspoken words and the man was liable to be sent into fight-or-flight mode.

"The rest of you spread out at this festival and keep watch for anyone or anything that looks out of place."

Turning towards the remaining man of the group, Sandor patted him on the back, suddenly feeling incredibly fortunate the man was here with him.

"Bronn, you and I will follow him, try to get him isolated wherever we can; preferably as far away from the crowd as possible."

With a nod of the head, Bronn offered a half smile, seemingly intuiting Sandor's unspoken sentiment. For as goofy as he was, Bronn was a sentimental kind of guy, often caught offering declarations of love and friendship when he had hit the bottle a bit too heavily.

"Alright, let's move," Sandor bellowed before sliding into the driver's seat of his car. The other men dispersed, getting into the appropriate vehicles and heading towards their assigned destinations. Granted it was only a few blocks away, eight men (running the gamut from an Italian Justin Bieber to Tupac's doppelganger and everything in between) walking down the street of this small town was going to look suspicious or, at the very least, massively fucked up.

Sandor parked the car across the street from the swarms of bodies gathering at the street festival. The length of the road running parallel to the beach shore was partitioned off with thin metal barricades in some places and with vendor's booths in others. The air was thick with the sickeningly sweet smell of funnel cake and cotton candy. As they crossed the street, Sandor tugged at the hem of his white T-shirt, making certain that it obscured the pistol tucked into the back of his pants.

They approached the makeshift entrance which consisted of a large, plastic banner hanging from a telephone line. To their left, rides flashed with lights of every imaginable color and emitted the high-pitched chiming sound of carnival music. Clusters of people loitered around the entrance, laughing as they sucked down lemonades and nibbled on popcorn. Children hopped up on sugar and caffeine easily ran about the crowd, swarming around their parents and begging for money to do whatever activity had captured their attention.

"We should probably look like we're having a good time," Bronn mumbled towards Sandor before flashing a cheesy and obviously faked smile.

Sandor groaned to himself. This wasn't his scene, not at all. There were too many goddamn people: teenagers shrieking like idiots, children throwing conniption fits, adults roaring with laughter after having visited the Budweiser tent a few times too many. Sandor's attention was being pulled in a million directions at once. The noise was growing increasingly loud as a band at the opposite end of the festival was sound checking; filling Sandor's ears with the booming sound of a bass drum and the grating voice of some fucking hipster  _check-checking_ into the mic.

With his eyes scrutinizing as many faces filing past him as possible, Sandor searched out Ned Stark. He had only seen the guy a few times in his life and always from afar. He knew Ned was a stern looking man, his face a perpetual mask of stone and ice. He wouldn't be hard to spot, or so Sandor hoped. It had been close to a year since the last time Sandor saw him, or rather watched him as he walked to his car in the parking garage of the Portland government building. It wasn't Ned's face that was going to give him away. It was going to be his demeanor, his body language. If the man was down here searching for his missing daughter and passing out flyers, he was going to stick out like a sore thumb against the backdrop of funfair.

With that thought, Sandor swept his eyes towards the food tent situated directly to his left. Staring back at him was Sansa's face printed on a piece of paper hung from a metal pole supporting the tent. Instinctively, Bronn's eyes traced the direction of Sandor's intent stare.

"He's putting up missing person signs at each of these booths," Sandor informed as he stared at Sansa's picture- her smiling face, her bright eyes, the straightened length of her auburn hair. "We just need to follow the signs," Sandor added as he pushed forward through the crowd.

With a renewed sense of determination, Sandor scanned the vendor's booths, eagerly searching out the white signs as he worked through the stagnant bodies of the crowd. Each booth they passed sported the taped-up signs, which were, more or less, ignored by the festival-goers. They were here to have a good time, not to be reminded that pretty girls were missing out in the world. Most averted their eyes, giving the signs nothing more than a cursory glance as they shoved their faces full of food dripping in grease.

Suddenly, Sandor felt Bronn grip him on the upper arm as he motioned his head towards a taco stand.

"Look, no sign there yet."

Sandor swept his eyes from the taco stand to the local artisan's booth directly across the way. It was also devoid of a missing person's sign, despite the booth next to it and across from it having one.

"He's got to be close," Sandor said on a dry voice as he stopped in his spot. His eyes examined the faces as people passed him. The music was playing now, blaring through speakers and making it damn near impossible to concentrate. People whizzed by him as they pushed towards the main stage. Despite his six-foot-eight-inches of height, Sandor was bombarded with people walking into him, shoving him forward as they clumsily traversed through the crowd.

Over the sound of music, Sandor could hear a group of teenage girls erupting into screeching giggles. Arm-in-arm, the girls cleared away, shuffling along with the crowd as it pressed forward. Standing bewildered amongst the crowd was Ned Stark. Like a hawk to its prey, Sandor focused his eyes on the man, forbidding them to move lest he lose Ned in the crowd. He looked a disheveled mess; his salt-and-pepper hair fell in greasy waves to his shoulders, the scraggly mass of facial hair smattered across his chin and down his neck suggested he hadn't shaved in probably two weeks. While Sandor had little insight into what he looked like before, he imagined that Ned hardly looked himself right now. Judging by the dark circles under his eyes and deep lines criss-crossing his face, the man had been getting little sleep, it seemed.

With a deeply furrowed brow, Ned stood in place, staring down at the stack of Sansa's missing person flyers clutched within his hands. He looked dejected, as if it had only just occurred to him that most people in the world cared less that Sansa was missing. People go missing every day. They run away, they leave their lives behind in search of something better, and yet the world keeps spinning. People keep going about their lives like they always do, unfazed that yet another person out in the world has vanished.

Sandor watched Ned and dared not peel his eyes away from the man. There was something strangely fascinating about him.

Sandor wondered then, is this excursion necessity or curiosity? If he searched for the truth within himself, he knew it was the latter. It was the sort of curiosity you indulge with the knowledge that in the end, it won't be as sweet or satisfying as you want it to be. Still, in some sort of hedonistic pursuit of the mind, we indulge anyway, regardless of how sickening the truths uncovered by curiosity may be. For the past two years, Sandor had had a vested interest in Ned Stark. He had studied the man's movements from the shadows, scrutinized the man's decisions and dealings, ensured that he was always a step ahead of him and just out of the man's reach. That was necessity and the motivation was survival.

This current endeavor was leaving the realm of necessity and inching steadily towards curiosity. It was the same sort of curiosity that lured him to the Royce mansion. A day would come, Sandor knew, that he would face Ned Stark. He had come to terms with that long ago. His only stipulation for reaching a resigned sense of peace with that knowledge was that he met Ned Stark on his own terms. Sandor would seek the man out when he was ready, and although he hadn't anticipated this moment coming so soon, Sandor readied himself as much as he could.

As the crowd began to thin, Ned sighed deeply, as evidenced by the exaggerated rise and fall of his chest. Running his fingers through the length of his unwashed hair, Ned turned towards the direction of the moving crowd and began walking- slowly, deliberately, and with his eyes steadfastly forward.

Sandor let a group of people move past him before he began his pursuit, weaving between people to maintain a clear sight. Ned stopped at various booths, taping up signs without asking the vendors for permission. Instead, he slapped up the sign and kept going, determination unwavering despite the man's obviously growing sense of frustration.

With Bronn behind him, Sandor mimicked Ned's stopping and starting motions and tried his damnedest to blend in. Bronn did the same, separating himself slightly from Sandor and pretending to be interested in some old lady's booth displaying an assortment of hand-made purses, scarves, and blouses. On this went until they reached the end of the vendor's booths and finally caught up with the majority of the crowd that had gathered to listen to the live music.

With nowhere left for him to put up his signs and no one else to talk to, Ned skirted around the crowd, working his way along the perimeter of the swarming bodies. He had quickened his pace with long, stomping strides; damn near running as he jaunted as far away from the horde and blaring music as possible. Sandor and Bronn matched his pace while keeping a comfortable distance, but it was getting harder to stay with him. Suddenly, the thought occurred to Sandor that Ned may very well be aware that he was being followed and was trying to lose his followers.

Still they followed, past the stage to the empty street beyond. In the distance, Sandor could see Damian's white SUV parked along the side of the street. Sandor slowed his strides a bit, trying to put some space between him and Ned's retreating form, which maintained the resolute pace. They were no longer provided the luxury of a constantly moving crowd to camouflage their movements. In the openness of the desolate street, Sandor and Bronn had nowhere to hide and nothing to blend in with.

As Ned approached a silver sedan, Damian's headlights flicked on, although the SUV did not move. Sandor watched as Ned flung open the back, passenger-side door and ducked into the car.

"What's he doing?" Bronn questioned as he stood bemused and motionless by Sandor's side.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Sandor replied as he watched Ned slam the car door closed before walking towards them.

With the same deliberate pace as before, Ned Stark was now closing the distance between them, his eyes settled directly on Sandor.

 _You're fucking crazy, old man._ Sandor watched him, mesmerized at his gall and dumbfounded that the man felt compelled to come face-to-face with him. Ned was outnumbered by odds he didn't even know existed, and yet he still kept coming; the infuriated look painted across his face becoming increasingly visible in the dusky light of a retreating sun.

As he approached, the man lifted his arm, which had been tucked behind him, and pointed a gun towards Sandor and Bronn. He could have reached for his own gun, Sandor knew, but it was too late. Ned was already standing in front of them, panting and heaving out his breaths as his eyes flashed wild with something between fear and anger.

"You've been following me," Ned choked out between breaths. "What the hell do you want?" His voice was deep and strong; a voice that commanded respect despite the blinding clarity that the man was quickly unraveling at the seams of sanity.

"I just want to talk," Sandor assured calmly as he slowly lifted his hands in the air and settled a stare to Ned's face, willing the sincerity to seep in.

Sandor noticed the man's eyes were a deep grey, much like his own, and yet there was something tragic about what was staring back at him.  _A man who has nothing, has nothing left to lose._ Sandor knew those words well, understood their meaning better than most. Ned had lost everything- wife, daughter, friends, a case he had built from the ground up, home. For that reason, he was dangerous; just as dangerous to others as he was to himself.

"Guns out, on the ground where I can see them," Ned demanded, snarling through clenched teeth as he wrapped his fingers tighter around his pistol, knuckles flushing with white as he did.

From the periphery of his vision, Sandor could see Bronn turn a stare towards him, seemingly questioning whether or not they should disarm themselves when Ned was clearly coming undone, blind with emotion.

"Now!" Ned bellowed out on a scream as he took another step towards them. His face, normally known for being stoic and impassible, was contorted with rage- a rage that seemed equal in intensity to Sandor's own capability of fury.

"Just do it," Sandor whispered to Bronn as he reached around with one hand to the back of his pants and pulled his pistol free. Bronn did the same, and both tossed their guns away from them, watching powerlessly as their weapons went tumbling to the pavement with a thud.

"You were following me, weren't you?" Ned barked out. Sandor knew the question was directed towards him. Somehow, the man had zeroed in on him rather than Bronn. In fact, Ned's attention was so singularly focused on Sandor that Bronn could probably slip away, hardly noticed.

Sandor replied to the man's question with a nod of the head and watched as Ned Stark's eyes narrowed to icy slits.

"Why?" he demanded as his voice deepened to something like a growl. He was afraid. Ned could gnash his teeth, snarl his words, howl out his demands, but beneath all his defensive gestures, he was still afraid. Sandor knew fear when he saw it; the man was losing control of himself and was well aware of it. Perhaps Ned didn't care, and with that thought alone, Sandor felt his own fear beginning take hold somewhere deep within him.

"It's about your involvement with the Portland P.D. and the case of your missing daughter," Sandor answered as he willed his voice to remain as steady as possible. His throat was dry, and each breath felt like sandpaper grinding against his wind pipe.

"What about it?" Ned shot back, his agitation growing rapidly with each passing moment. Sandor let his eyes subtly flicker behind Ned's shoulder to the sight of Damian, Zulu, and E.Z. heading towards them.

 _'Go back, you fuckers,'_ Sandor screamed inside his own head. Ned was about to know how truly outnumbered he was, and that was liable to set him off, his desperation a ticking time bomb ready to explode from the pressure of pent up worry, guilt, frustration, grief, and loss. Suddenly, Sandor stepped forward, his thoughts sent into a frenzy as the other men approached ever nearer. With each of their steps, his only opportunity to get through to Ned Stark was dwindling away.

"You have to listen to me," Sandor pleaded as his eyes searched Ned's face. "They're playing you false, and they have been from the beginning."

Confusion and disbelief pulled at the man's face as he took a step backwards from Sandor and clutched even tighter to the gun in his hand, his only source of true power in this situation.

"You're out of your mind," Ned gasped as he shook his head, letting his eyes fall away and his gun lower slightly. "Who the hell are you?"

"It doesn't matter who I am," Sandor responded with a growing sense of urgency. "I need you to understand that any information you give Portland is being passed along to the Severelli crime family. They want you dead and Sansa too."

Her name flowed off of his lips- casual and a bit too sweetly. Immediately, Ned's head snapped back up as he stared at Sandor.

"Sansa," Ned repeated back to Sandor, his eyes full of fright in that moment and cutting through Sandor like a warm knife through butter. Sandor could do nothing but stare back at Ned and feel as though he had been caught red handed doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing.

As Damian, E.Z., and Zulu came up behind Ned, the man spun around and brandished his gun at each of them in turn.

"Who the fuck are they?" Ned shouted over his shoulder to Sandor with a wave of renewed fear and anger.

"None of us want to hurt you. We just want to talk," Sandor assured, feeling almost as he if were cooing to a petrified child. Turning around once more, Ned pointed the pistol back at Sandor as his lips set into an irate scowl.

"I don't believe you," he seethed venomously. "I don't believe any of the shit you're telling me."

Sandor nodded his head, realizing now that this wasn't going to sink in on the first pass. In fact, Sandor could probably explain everything from A to Z a couple of times, and Ned still wasn't likely to believe him.

"Young blood," Damian spoke to Zulu, although his eyes remained glued to Ned. "Do you know how to look for a tracking device on a car?"

Suddenly at the center of attention, Zulu's eyes went wide before he timidly nodded his head. Spinning on his heel, Zulu jaunted off towards Ned's car. Ned turned, shifted his gaze over his shoulder, and watched carefully as Zulu bent down to feel around the chassis of the silver vehicle. Finally, Zulu's face lit up, glowing with achievement even from afar. The kid hustled back over and handed Sandor a small, black piece of plastic about the size of a match book.

Sandor held it up for Ned to see and watched intently as the man stared somberly at the device.

"Who do you think put that there, and why would they be tracking your every move?" Sandor implored on a deep, rasping voice. Dropping the piece to the ground, Sandor stomped on it with his heel. Pieces of plastic and the inner workings of a small circuit board went scattering from the force of impact.

"Your phone is bugged too," Sandor continued matter-of-factly as Ned stared back with astonishment, rendering him speechless. "Every call you make is being recorded."

After bombarding Ned with heavy hits of staggering truth, it all finally seemed to stick. Lowering his gun finally, Ned's oppressive eyes softened with defeat as his gaze fell to the ground in front of him. For a moment, Sandor thought his body might follow; his knees seemed to quiver with weakness as every stress-filled day and sleepless night seemed to catch up with him all at once.

"Sansa didn't do anything," Ned pleaded on a voice that sounded like a distraught cry for help. "She's just a teenage girl. She had nothing to do with this." His voiced had trailed off to a whisper as his eyes darted back and forth across the ground.

"I know that, but they don't care," Sandor replied, his relief at finally getting through almost insulting in its profound contrast to Ned's visible distress.

Sandor stepped forward, the space between him and Ned no more than a half-foot as Sandor lowered his voice. His words were meant for Ned and Ned alone. In fact, this entire conversation should have never had an audience to begin with.

"You need to leave here as soon as you can," Sandor urged as Ned lifted a pained expression towards him. "Tonight, leave tonight. Get as far away as you can. Don't talk to anyone, don't call anyone. Just fall off the grid,  _for real_ this time."

"No. I can't do that," Ned refused with repeated and adamant shaking of his head. "She's out there. She could be hurt."

"She'll be fine as long as you quit dealing with Portland and disappear from their radar."

Sandor's words were offered with as much reassurance as he could give in this moment. Although his voice was gruff and had the propensity of being biting, the undercurrents of Sandor's tone were as calm as he could manage, especially with the man waving a gun around.

Sighing deeply, Sandor let his eyes fall to the ground as Ned remained silent as a crypt in front of him. He was staring at Sandor, his eyes cutting through him with an intensity that was unsettling. Sandor found he could not meet Ned Stark's eyes; not unless he wanted to burn alive beneath the man's stare.

"How do you know all of this?" Ned questioned on a voice eerily calm. "You talk as if you know for sure. The way you say her name…like you know her."

Something drew Sandor's eyes to Ned then. It wasn't a fleeting glance or cursory evaluation. Sandor looked at Ned and Ned looked back. Only then did Sandor fully come to realize that this was Sansa's father; this same man- so full of an honest sort of pride- held her as a child, bounced her on his knee, and undoubtedly soothed away tears at every skinned knee and broken heart. Somehow that knowledge was the force keeping Sandor's stare, and he saw then what he knew with a certainty he would see if he  _truly_ looked Ned Stark in the eyes.

Sandor had stolen Ned Stark's most prized possession, the love of the man's life, and it had left Ned's entire existence in absolute ruins. The story of that pain was staring back at Sandor through those eyes; so much agony in those tortuous eyes. Sandor swallowed hard. His hands trembled and his breaths quaked out of his lungs, unsteady and ragged, but still he could not look away.

With an empathy he did not know he possessed, Sandor understood something of Ned's pain. He had, for a moment, lost Sansa himself and feared for her life the way Ned feared for her life now. Only the brutal intensity of this man's anguish eclipsed Sandor's; blotting out the fraction of loss Sandor had felt and dwarfing it with a magnitude that was unfathomable and immeasurable by comparison.

There was something else gleaming fierce in Ned Stark's eyes, and it was gaining ground on the pain, seeking to supersede it.

Ned knew. His weren't the only eyes betraying a story; Sandor had given himself away.

 _'She's mine. I'm not giving her back to you,'_ a voice inside him spoke as it had spoken a thousand times before; only now that voice faltered and had grown weak, a whisper where it once was a war-cry. Bitterness flooded his heart, and Sandor hated this man now for reasons that were irrational and driven by what he could only describe as love; although he knew little of that word and less of its true meaning. Guilt had invaded; a guilt whose seed had already been planted by the way Sansa longed for her family, for this man standing in front of him.  _You're mine and I'm not giving you back._  Time and time again, Sandor had poisoned the root of his guilt with those words, and yet it grew resiliently, stronger than ever and flourishing now in this very moment. Coming like a thief in the night, he had stolen Sansa away; she was never his to take, never given to him, never entrusted to him with the peace of mind that he would never do wrong by her. No, he had stolen her from a better man, and perhaps the greater sin was that he was never going to willingly give her back.

Sandor backed away from Ned, his spitefulness seething out of him now. _She's mine._

Ned knew. He understood now and seemed to hear Sandor's silent words, loud and clear.

Never in a million years could Sandor have anticipated Ned's speed. Before Sandor could take another step backwards away from Ned, the man was on him; throwing all of his weight into Sandor with a strength fueled by hatred, rage, and suffering.

As Sandor went tumbling to the ground, a fist landed against his face harder than any hit he had ever taken before, including that of his brother. The warm, sticky wetness of blood oozed from Sandor's nose and down his cheek as he struggled to push Ned off of him.

It all happened within mere seconds, but as Bronn and Damian rushed forward to restrain Ned, the man's face filled Sandor's vision; contorted with rage and burning red with eyes- so full of hatred and contempt- like something out of a horror movie.

"You son-of-a-bitch," he spat, fuming and writhing like a wild animal. "You have her. You have my daughter!"

In a daze, Sandor stood up and wiped the blood from his nose. He stared at Ned; watched as the man took a kick to the ribs by Damian and a crack across the head from Bronn. Still, the man would not look away from him. Those eyes, those fucking eyes, stared right back at him.

"I'll find you," Ned coughed out as Damian and Bronn continued their assault.

Sandor couldn't bear to look anymore. He turned away, walking as fast as his legs would carry him back towards Damian's car as blood drained out of his nose and stained the front of his shirt.

"I'm going to find you!" Sandor heard the maniacal scream as he walked away. It was pale in comparison to Ned's eyes.

Those eyes. Those eyes were going to haunt him.

* * *

Sansa eyed Vinny carefully from across the kitchen table. The seat groaned against the man's weight as he shifted uncomfortably. Wary stares were mutually exchanged as many minutes of intense silence passed like this, neither wanting to be the first to crack. Stone faced, Vinny was a hard character to read, and that alone was making her anxious. Resolved to stand her ground, Sansa calmly pressed her clammy palms against the table as she kept his gaze, willing herself to be as still and stoic as possible.

At last, Vinny was the one to break the uneasy silence as he leaned slightly forward in his seat.

"2G's, Kentucky Avenue, and a 'Get Out of Jail Free' card," Vinny finally proposed, his voice steady and body stiff as he offered what would be his last deal, or so he claimed. He had underestimated her, it would seem, and she had shamelessly used that to her advantage. In an effort to throw him off, Sansa made some rookie moves in the beginning such as buying up Mediterranean and Baltic Avenue and meagerly building on them with two houses each. It seemed to work; he had no monopolies to his name and his stack of cash was dwindling by the minute as he struggled to keep his properties afloat. It was useless. One by one, they were mortgaged off, and Vinny's little top hat was on borrowed time. One more spin around the board and surely he was a goner.

"No," Sansa answered unwavering and with no traces of apology in her voice. Sure, she was often characterized as sweet-spoken and soft-hearted, but Monopoly was a whole different deal. One of the first major, and certainly more memorable, lessons she learned in life was how to dominate on the Monopoly board: buy up everything from St. Charles to New York Avenue, even if you have to barter, get as many railroads as possible, and never hoard cash if it means buying more properties. That strategy had never failed her before, and it wasn't looking as if it would fail her now.

Shaking his head as he muttered in Italian beneath his breath, Vinny tossed down the stack of thin, paper cash and patted his beer belly, something he seemed to do often.

"You're killing me, Red!" Vinny exclaimed in his thick New York accent.

Gazing up through her eyelashes, Sansa smiled at the nickname he had given her. All afternoon, Vinny had been calling her 'Red' as he took it upon himself to entertain her; to get her mind off of what was so obviously vexing her. It had worked, except now it was nearing 8:00pm and Sandor still wasn't back. There were no phone calls, no text messages to say he and the other men were on their way. The silence on Sandor's end was unnerving, and now even his men were growing concerned. Sansa could tell by the way they continually checked their phones and whispered to one another in hushed voices with serious tones. They, too, were running out of things to entertain themselves with.

Shifting her eyes away from Vinny, Sansa spotted Mirabelle lounging across the couch as she ripped through the current issue of some fashion magazine. The woman seemed unfazed as she "ooh-ed" and "aah-ed" over designer outfits displayed on the glossy pages. Sansa decided then that she wouldn't let herself get worried until she saw the first visible signs of worry begin to color Mirabelle's demeanor. It seemed logical in her mind. After all, this wasn't Mirabelle's first rodeo and it certainly wasn't going to be her last, either.

"If I trade you Park Place," Sansa explained matter-of-factly as she turned her attention back towards Vinny, "you'll start building houses on the blue spaces."

"That's the point of the game!" Vinny cried out, his hands gesturing in mock frustration as he animatedly waved them about. With the back of his hand, Vinny wiped away the sweat forming on his brow before taking a long pull from his beer bottle.

Reaching across the table, Sansa sympathetically patted the top of Vinny's other hand, which was resting protectively against what remained of his Monopoly money. He was a frugal Monopoly player, for all the good it did him.

"The point of the game is to win," she spoke softly, her words artificial sugar. "And if you have Park Place  _and_ Boardwalk, you might win. I'm very sorry, Vinny, but I can't let that happen."

It was a vindictive move, especially after she had cajoled him into trading a handful of his properties with her. Regardless, Sansa settled back in her seat and crossed her arms about her chest, a smug smile of satisfaction creasing her lips. Shaking his head once more in defeat, Vinny shot a pleading stare, accompanied with a resounding sigh, towards Mirabelle.

"Sorry, Vinny. It sounds like my girl's got you," Mirabelle quipped without looking up, as she dog-eared a page from the magazine.

Finally accepting his inevitable defeat, Vinny pursed his lips and shook his head once more.

"Alright, Red," he conceded with a sigh as he pushed himself from the table and popped his back. "How about we call it your game?"

"I could live with that," Sansa replied with a shrug of the shoulders and a beaming smile. If victory was sweet, the game's distraction had been sweeter, and now it appeared that that sweetness was fading, diluted by a renewed sense of reality.

"Good game, doll." Ever the gracious loser, Vinny laughed heartily as he shook Sansa's hand. "If you'll excuse me, I've got to go make a phone call."

Sansa nodded her head and watched Vinny quietly slip away to the guest bedroom, disappearing inside as he gently shut the door behind him.

Gathering up scraps of the paper money, Sansa slowly began sorting them by their pastel colors, taking her time and giving the task extra care in an effort to further distract her mind lest it worry endlessly. Instead, she focused on all the stories Vinny had shared with her this afternoon.

His wife's name was Louisa, and she loved to garden. For their fifteen-year wedding anniversary in October, Vinny was planning on taking Louisa to Italy for the honeymoon they had never taken. He had a daughter too, Briella was her name, and she was fourteen years old. Vinny talked at length about how beautiful his daughter was- a true vision of Louisa. He joked that he had been mentally preparing himself for the day when the boys would start coming around. For now, they only had the nerve to call up and timidly ask if Briella was home.

Sansa had smiled at that and nodded her head as she remembered her own father doing something very similar. It was hard to imagine that that was only a few years ago. How she  _hated_ when her own dad would dash to the house phone to filter whatever calls were coming through for her. She begged and pleaded for him to stop, to let her get her own cell phone so that she could talk to whomever she pleased without him screening her calls for her. With a pang of remorse, Sansa felt terrible for not realizing sooner how good her father was to her; just like Vinny was a good father to Briella.

Vinny raved about his wife- her beauty, her vivaciousness, her intellect- and Sansa listened, enchanted and feeling the tiny sliver of hope begin to shine once more. She had hoped Mirabelle overheard Vinny talking about his family.  _His family. The thought of a family for these men isn't so outlandish after all._ Sansa couldn't quite wrap her mind around how Mirabelle could take a decidedly negative view on made men and families. If the mafia was so seemingly centered around family, then why was the concept of made men having families of their own such a travesty?

Sansa had chocked it up to Mirabelle's unfortunate upbringing; undoubtedly the woman's views were biased by her life's experiences. It was only natural, Sansa supposed. In the end, Mirabelle hadn't overheard the conversation and that was alright by Sansa. She too could have her own views on the matter, her stance also being largely influenced by her upbringing. She and Mirabelle would just have to agree to disagree where this topic was concerned.

As Sansa tucked away the last bits and pieces of the board game into its cardboard container, Mirabelle shuffled into the kitchen and retrieved a water bottle from the fridge.

"You think Vinny is calling Sandor?" Sansa quietly inquired as Mirabelle began to walk past her. With her concern growing and her distractions dwindling, the question bubbled from Sansa's lips before she could stop it. There was no harm in asking, she reminded herself. The worst Mirabelle could tell her was  _'No, Vinny is not calling Sandor. Quit worrying so much'_.

Appearing surprised by Sansa's question, Mirabelle stopped in front of her and sucked in a breath as her brow furrowed.

"No," Mirabelle replied almost regretfully as she clutched the open magazine to her chest and searched Sansa's face with heavy eyes. "His goomah. If he were calling Sandor or his wife, he wouldn't be taking the call in the other room."

Sansa felt her heart drop to the pit of her stomach, although she wasn't quite sure why. Her reaction to this information was decidedly physiological: her palms were sweaty, her heart raced, her bottom lip quivered. The information hit her like a ton of bricks; the weight not hers to bear, but heavy nonetheless.

"But he had talked so much about Louisa," Sansa managed on something like a whimper.

"They always do," Mirabelle responded as she shook her head; disapproving, yes, but still with the same irritating nonchalance that Sansa had come to recognize as a pattern with Mirabelle. "They talk about their wives to the other women or when it's socially expected for them to talk about their wives. The goomahs are for guy talk, Sansa; when the men are trying to impress one another with all the things they can do with their dicks."

Mirabelle hovered in Sansa's downturned vision for another moment, clearly gauging whether or not to continue this conversation or to let Sansa digest the information she had just divulged. Choosing the latter, Mirabelle retreated back to the couch and resumed her perusing of outfits she could never possibly own.

Sansa felt a sudden jolt of sympathy for Louisa, a woman she had never met; a woman who, much like herself, had probably spent the day worrying about her man and waiting for his call. Yet Vinny's call would be going to another woman first; the one he obviously gave priority to, but would never rave about in public or take on vacations to Italy. That woman would remain a mystery to everyone except the other men, who were made privy to all of her intimate details for their own perverted pleasure. Sansa didn't quite know which woman was getting the shittier end of the deal; the woman abandoned or the woman objectified.

She didn't have time to dwell on it long. At precisely 8:17pm, the front door swung open and slammed against the adjacent wall of the foyer with so much force, the vibrations surged through the wall studs and rattled the various wall hangings. From her vantage point, Sansa could not see who had entered, but it didn't matter. She knew it was Sandor by the way Mirabelle had dropped her magazine and sprung from the couch, her eyes widening to the size of saucers and her mouth falling open. The men who had stayed behind stared silent and knowingly towards the front door, neither speaking a word nor exchanging glances. All eyes in the room solemnly followed Sandor's form as he stomped into the living room.

As he came into her sight, Sansa felt herself mimic the reaction of every other person in the room; eyes wide and all words fleeing her mind as she watched him traverse the room in pounding footsteps. The front of his white shirt was covered in dried blood; whose blood, she did not know, but imagined it had to be his. His nostrils were darkened with a ring of crusty, dried blood, which had also smeared partially across his face in some attempt to wipe away the remnants of a bleeding nose. Across his right cheek a red lesion was beginning to show the promise of a nasty bruise come morning.

His physical appearance was nothing-  _nothing-_  compared to what was stirring within the depths of his being. Sandor looked as if he were about to jump out of his skin with rage; as if every fiber of his being was tensing and untensing repeatedly with every surge of fury. His hands were balled into fists so tight that Sansa imagined his finger nails were undoubtedly piercing the skin of his palms. His breaths were coming frantic through his bloodied nose as his jaw clenched tightly closed, no words coming from his mouth- sealed shut against whatever frenzy raged within him. Worst of all, though, were his eyes; Sansa had glimpsed them as he passed through the room and headed towards the back door. He did not look directly at her. In fact, he hardly seemed to notice anyone else was present, so lost in his own wrath he was. Yet she had seen the look in his eyes, and it chilled her to the bone. Maniacal was the only word that came to her mind, and even that didn't quite capture the almost other-worldly fury that radiated out of his being.

Much like the front door had opened, the back sliding glass door slammed shut as Sandor retreated outside into the dying light of the sun. The room had fallen hauntingly still against the oppressive anger Sandor had left in his wake. Sansa scanned the room, and her eyes were met with the sight of each person peering off towards some invisible spot on the floor. No one lifted their gaze, but instead they had succumbed to the silence and now to the stillness. It was as if the world had stopped turning, and with it, time had crept to a halt; they were encapsulated for now in this microcosm of Sandor's hellish rage.

Fearlessly and with her legs moving automatically to carry her towards whatever beast had returned home to her, Sansa hurriedly made her way towards the back door, but was stopped as Mirabelle reached out for her, coiling her fingers firmly around Sansa's upper arm and pulling her backwards with a steady yank.

"No, let him be," Mirabelle commanded dolefully as Sansa regained her balance next to the woman's side. "Things didn't happen the way they were supposed to."

"What does that mean?" Sansa whined as she turned a panicked stare towards Mirabelle and wriggled in the woman's firm grasp. "I should see if he's okay."

Undaunted, Mirabelle yanked once more until Sansa's back was flush against her chest. Lowering her voice as she spoke into Sansa's ear, Mirabelle emphasized her words firmly, each one sounding equally hard as they did portentous.

"I don't know what it means and neither will you. Give him some time. He needs to blow off steam and get it out of his system. When he's done, he'll come to you. They always do."

Footsteps in the foyer pulled Mirabelle's attention away momentarily as she eased up her grasp on Sansa. Looking uncharacteristically solemn, Bronn hurried through the door with the other men not far behind. Although their combined countenances did not speak of rage, the gravity these men possessed matched Sandor in intensity, if nothing else. The entire room seemed to darken as the returning men sunk into chairs or slumped against the wall, all except Bronn who broke the silence with a deep sigh as he searched the faces of all the men. Their eyes lifted as they stared back at him, looking for some sense of direction against the chaos that churned wild beneath the surface of silence.

Bronn looked at a loss. His mouth hung open and his voice caught on the first syllable of a word, but he stopped himself there. Instead, he slowly paced towards Mirabelle's side and offered her a weak smile, which quickly faded away. Mirabelle mimicked his sentiment, and whatever happiness they shared at being reunited was stymied for now as the awful silence continued to hang in the air. Bronn simply stood there with his hands shoved in his pockets and his gaze moving about the room, never staying in one place for too long.

As always, Mirabelle acquiesced; asked no questions, showed no visible emotion of outright distress for her own brother. The woman took her place by Bronn's side; quiet, supportive, and, above all else, unconditionally accepting. And Sansa realized that she was expected to do the same, after Sandor came to her, of course. Shaking her head against that thought, Sansa scoffed bitterly to herself.  _No more. It stops tonight._

She had had enough; Mirabelle could cope however the hell she wanted to, but Sansa was done with meekly and unquestioningly accepting whatever was thrown her way and without so much as a second thought.

"What happened to him?" Sansa demanded as she fully freed herself from Mirabelle's hold and stepped in front of Bronn, meeting his eyes defiantly. She would will an answer from him, even if she had to silently shame him into doing so.

Bronn stared at her, his eyes clouded with confusion as if to say  _'are you really asking me this?'_ With a slight shake of the head, Bronn opened his mouth to speak, but once more stopped himself short. Sansa knew then that Bronn would not be telling her anything. Despite this, or perhaps because of it, the man was unable to maintain Sansa's insistent stare. Bronn simply let his eyes fall away and remained mute, refusing to answer Sansa's question.

Sansa took a step backwards from Mirabelle and Bronn, suddenly disgusted and reeling from this entire situation, from beginning to end.  _Are these people insane?,_ Sansa questioned to herself. This all was beginning to feel like madness, complete and utter madness, and she had somehow gotten herself roped up in it.

She let her eyes scan the room, stopping at each and every one of the men. Feeling her gaze fall upon them, some looked away, let their eyes settle anywhere except her. Then there were others who stared right back at her, and for a fleeting moment, she would think that they were about to say something _._ None of them did though, and instead Sansa found their eyes to be cold and scrutinizing. They glared at her suspiciously, as if she were an outsider to all of this, the cause to whatever trouble they had gotten themselves into today. They hated her, she realized then. Maybe not all of them, but certainly their feelings towards her ranged from annoyed indifference to out-and-out disdain and bitterness. Even Vinny, who had, at some point, returned from his adulterous phone call, wouldn't look at Sansa, but instead stared down at the floor in front of his feet.

In a room full of people, Sansa felt alone and isolated. One by one, they all seemed to lift their eyes to her, and the story was more-or-less the same; some versions a tad bit tamer than others, but she read it loud and clear nonetheless. She was indeed an outsider to them, and whatever ground Sansa thought she had made in trusting the people in Sandor's life was instantaneously wiped away. They stared at her in silence, unwilling to tell her what happened or offer advice on what she should do next. The room became claustrophobic; suffocating with all those judgmental eyes staring at her as if she had committed some profound offense.

Taking slow steps backwards, Sansa inched towards the back door until she felt her fingers grasp the metal handle. Spinning around, she opened the door and hurried outside, her legs hardly carrying her fast enough as she stumbled onto the deck and ran down the steps to the yard below.

Sansa clutched her chest as she heaved her breaths. Despite the lack of true physical exertion, her breaths came wheezing from her lips as she struggled to fill her lungs. With her head spinning and her mind racing, Sansa pressed the palms of her hands hard against the sides of her head as she squeezed her eyes shut. And then it struck her; she was afraid.  _Truly_ afraid. This sanctuary- the one place she had felt safe since leaving home- was decimated, no longer sacred.

Now more than ever, she needed Sandor. Feeling powerless, vulnerable, and weak in this moment, his strength was the only sanctuary she had left to turn to. Even if he was enraged right now, at least she knew something of the beast that dwelled within him and felt confident that she could tame it. As for the others, she didn't know where to place what she had seen lurking behind their frigid stares.

She found him in his boxing gym. He had shut himself away in there, but she had heard the grunts, soft at first from a distance and growing louder as she approached the door. With a trembling hand, Sansa slowly pushed the door opened and peaked her head in through the small amount of space she had made. Having removed his bloody T-shirt, Sandor's bare, tattooed back was facing her as he delivered blow after blow to the heavy punching bag, each hit delivered with a low grunting sound.

Thoroughly engaged in what he was doing, Sandor did not hear as Sansa crept into the room and quietly closed the door behind her. Despite the humid warmth in the gym, Sansa protectively wrapped her arms around her middle as she approached Sandor with tentative steps, careful not to startle him, yet unsure how to alert him of her presence.

He seemed to know already that she was there. As she positioned herself a healthy three feet or so away from him, Sandor shifted his eyes to her, his blank stare flicking up and down her form as he curled and uncurled his right fist. He hadn't bothered to don boxing gloves, but instead haphazardly wrapped his hands with white cotton straps secured into place with surgical tape. Small circles of red had started to stain the wrap of his right hand where his knuckles were bloodied underneath.

Sansa stared at him, waiting for him to say something or acknowledge her presence somehow. Instead, he stood there in silence, panting his breaths as the muscled contours of his upper body glistened with the sheen of sweat. His black hair, slightly damp with sweat, was beginning to stick to the sides of his face and curl into subtle waves against the humidity. His eyes had lost much of the maniacal anger she had seen in them and now was replaced with something impassible and icy.

"You're hurt," Sansa softly spoke as she tentatively stepped forward and took Sandor's bloodied right hand into her own, carefully wrapping her fingers around his to get a better look.

Shaking his head, Sandor snorted a derisive laugh before turning his head to the left and spitting on the ground. Still, he said nothing to her as his eyes narrowed towards the punching bag once more, eager to get back to pummeling whatever imaginary foe he envisioned the bag to be.

Some voice from within, perhaps her mother's voice, told her to walk away and leave him for now until he calmed down. Words- hurtful and hasty- were likely to be exchanged if she did not heed this internal warning. Stubborn in her resolve though, Sansa willed her hand to quit shaking as she reached for his face.

"Sandor…"

Just before the tips of her fingers met the skin of his cheek, Sandor's head snapped towards her as his left hand deftly caught her by the wrist. She looked up at him and found him staring back at her, his eyes beginning to flash with vestiges of his earlier anger.

"Go to bed, Sansa."

His voice was harsh, his tone biting, and his eyes cruel. Even still, Sansa could tell that he had held back against all the venom surging through his veins.

"I'm not tired," she replied softly as her eyes searched his, trying to find the man who had so tenderly reassured her just this morning. She hoped that he could see how much she needed his tenderness now, that he saw it in the way her stare pleaded with him. That silent message, so desperately sent out through her eyes, was lost on him.

"I didn't ask if you were fucking tired, girl." With that, he released her wrist and yanked his hand away from her, leaving Sansa standing next to him bewildered with shock at his brusqueness. He turned away from her now, leaving her reeling at the sharpness of his words, which cut through her so deeply and painfully that unbidden tears quickly filled her eyes.

_Not him too. They can all hate me. I don't care, but not him._

Watching from behind as he unwrapped his right hand and inspected his bloody knuckles, Sansa struggled to compose herself. Her mouth dangled open and her widened eyes were now filled to the brim with tears as her legs kept her firmly in place, waiting for something to happen. Nothing happened, though- no apology, no sudden urge on his end to turn to her and offer some sliver of compassion to ease the pain he had so effortlessly caused. Stubborn in his own right, Sandor simply waited for her to leave, which she did. Much as she had entered, Sansa slipped away, quietly and without so much as a second glance from him.

She sought refuge in the only place of the house she knew to do so- Sandor's bedroom. By the time she retreated back inside, the silence had broken in the house as the men waited for their release, the order to take their leave and head back to wherever they had come from. In small clusters, they conversed with one another in casual conversation, laughing here and there as the collective mood seemed to lift slightly. With her eyes downcast and her footsteps quickened, Sansa slipped along the far wall towards the hallway. She didn't want to know if they were looking at her, didn't want to see their eyes dissecting her with a coldness that bordered on malice. Someone had followed her down the hallway, Mirabelle most likely, but Sansa ducked into Sandor's room and shut the door before this individual could reach her.

Safe inside, Sansa could do nothing but wait.

With her mind running wild, she paced the room, rehearsed all the things she was going to say to Sandor until they flowed off her tongue. Her planned declaration started out frantic; a mess of questions and girlish declarations of how worried she had been about him. After releasing the unease she had bottled up all day, Sansa scrapped that inner monologue for something a bit more subdued, words Mirabelle might say to Bronn. That hadn't felt right either. She knew she couldn't pull off the acquiescent nonchalance that seemed so effortless with Mirabelle. As time continued to pass, Sansa felt the annoyance rising within her, and that annoyance quickly evolved into her own anger. Waiting around all day, not knowing whether or not he was okay, was one thing. His walking right past her, without so much as an explanation or even a word, was insult to injury. His treatment of her when she found him in his boxing gym had felt like a punch to the gut.

Sansa was fuming with simultaneous hurt and insult. In the bathroom, she scrubbed her face clean, her nails digging into her skin as she settled for the angry monologue. It was the only one that felt right now as she sat on Sandor's bed and worked a comb roughly through her hair, her scalp bearing the brunt of her irritation.

Four, five, maybe six times she rehearsed the chosen words in her head, so many times she had lost count, and her anger was slowing subsiding, steadily replaced by growing fatigue. Yawning, she rested her back against the plush pillows. She was ready to battle sleep if she needed to; come hell or high water, they were talking about this  _tonight._ There would be no "let's sleep on it, maybe things will be clearer in the morning". No, none of that. Besides, she was likely to forget her monologue in the morning; it would come out in bits and pieces that wouldn't make sense. She would wait up for him, Sansa decided.

In the end, her battle against sleep had been a half-won victory; she had indeed fallen asleep, but it had been light and hardly able to sustain itself against Sandor's heavy footsteps pounding throughout the room. When Sansa opened her eyes, she saw him at the dresser, now donning a clean, black T-shirt. Caught in a groggy daze, she watched as he opened drawers, pulled out all the contents and shoved them into their travel bags. He didn't bother to fold anything or to sort her stuff from his own. Instead, he grabbed fistfuls of whatever was in the drawer and dumped it all together before slamming the drawer shut and moving to the next.

Lying still, Sansa watched him for a few moments as she worked herself up to deliver her rehearsed words. She hadn't anticipated the butterflies in her stomach or the shaking of her hands. Taking a deep breath, Sansa moved quietly from the bed and tip-toed next to Sandor's side as he pulled open the top drawer of the dresser. Much like before, he paid her no mind as he began pulling out the random assortment of clothes from the drawer.

"I want to know what happened," Sansa spoke clearly and loud enough that she knew he heard her. As soon as the words left her mouth, she could see his chest rise as he pulled in a deep breath. His jaw clenched, setting his lips tightly together and ensuring no words would accidentally slip out.

Sure enough, he said nothing in reply, but rather shoved the last bits and pieces of clothing into a duffle bag and let it fall to the floor with a loud thud before setting about double checking all the drawers.

At once, all the eloquently pieced together words- logical and unarguable- fled Sansa's mind and left her at a staggering loss for what to say. Only then did she realize that she would have to do what she should have done from the start: speak from her heart, even if it came out a blubbering mess. What it might lack in loquaciousness, it would make up for in purity.

Stepping ever closer to Sandor, Sansa wedged herself between him and the dresser, forcing him to acknowledge her.

"Don't shut me out," Sansa implored as she pressed her hands against his chest and craned her neck so that she could meet his eyes. "I want to know, Sandor."

Remaining motionless, Sandor had stilled beneath her touch, and finally he returned her stare. The exchange was brief, but it was quite possibly the most he had given her all night.

"I saw your father," he rasped on a dark voice, deepened by fatigue. "That's what happened." With that, Sandor snatched up the duffle bag from the floor and pulled away from Sansa as he tossed the bag against the wall next to the bedroom door.

His words, spoken so callous and indifferent, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to say, siphoned the breath right out of her lungs. Gasping as her body swayed with shock, Sansa brought a trembling hand to her mouth, which could do naught but make tiny, nearly inaudible mewling sounds as she breathed.

Lifting her eyes, Sansa's gaze followed Sandor across the room. As if the flood gates had opened, the flurry of questions poured from her lips faster than she could fully process them; the filter between mouth and mind dissolving away. Her need to know everything that happened today exploded from a mere curiosity to a crucial need.

"What do you mean you saw him? Where is he? Is he okay? What did he say?" Regaining some of her equilibrium, Sansa traversed the room in a few staggering steps and followed Sandor into the bathroom, where he started collecting the various toiletries scattered about the counter top.

"He's fine," Sandor muttered, dumping all the toiletries into one bag with a sweep of his arm before pushing past Sansa. She couldn't help but notice he had picked just one of her questions to answer, perhaps the only one he thought to be truly relevant. Undaunted and feeling delirious at the information, Sansa was quick on his heels as he crossed the bedroom to the night stand on his side of the bed.

"What did you tell him?" Sansa demanded impatiently, undeterred by his apparent unwillingness to be forthcoming with information. It was her father, and she had a right to know.

"Nothing," Sandor growled in response while he investigated the contents of the night stand drawer and plucked out the items that were of interest to him. Throwing those in the bag with the toiletries, Sandor once more pushed past Sansa as he tossed the bag with all the others by the door.

With blood still smeared across his face, Sansa was ready to call his bluff. He couldn't possibly think she was so dense that she couldn't put the pieces together herself.

"You didn't tell him nothing," Sansa shouted out defiantly, feeling her body tense with frustration and impatience as she once more followed him across the room. "That's plain to see."

Spinning around, Sandor leveled a furious glare at her, his eyes wild and his skin a burning red as he finally ran out of ways to avoid her. Their bags were packed and the night was well upon them. The men had left, or so it seemed. The punching bag presumably suffered the majority of his rage. Now it was just her and him, left to battle it out. He had to face her sooner or later, and that time had finally come.

"What does it matter what I told him?" Sandor snapped, his voice a crescendo as the words boomed throughout the room. "Are you worried? Worried that I told him about your pretty little fingers wrapped around my cock? Worried that he knows how much you've enjoyed yourself since coming to me? Is that what you're worried about?"

Sansa stared at him in disbelief, her head slowly shaking as she felt herself recoil from him. Sandor could shout at her; he could scream and fly off the handle like he was now, and she wouldn't back down from him. Yet it was the hatefulness of his words that inspired her fear; a fear she hadn't felt with him since perhaps the night gunfire rang out in the Royce mansion.

"Why are you being like this?" Although she put power behind her voice, her words still came out sounding petrified. She could hardly imagine how meek it must sound to him- how thoroughly crestfallen and pathetic.

He looked away from her, let his eyes hover slightly to the right of her as he bit his bottom lip hard. She hoped it was remorse that forced his stare to gravitate away from her. Remorse and shame. Those would be tiny victories in what she surmised was about to be all-out war between the two of them. Sansa's default was to love, not to fight, and in this regard, she knew he would over-power her, make her submit and bend to his will; nonetheless, she would take her victories where she could.

"We're leaving tomorrow," Sandor grumbled as he shifted his weight from one side to the other. "First thing in the morning. I have half a mind to leave right now."

 _Leaving._ They had only come here a week ago and for good reason. The thought of leaving made her nauseous with a different sort of fear and anxiety.

"Why?" Sansa questioned as she crossed her arms about her chest defensively, Sandor's size somehow feeling imposing as he stepped towards her.

"You want to go home," Sandor began in a belittling tone. "Your father wants you to come home. I want to kill my brother. My brother wants to kill me."

He stared at her now as if that cryptic answer should illuminate everything. Sansa watched as Sandor's lips pulled into a mocking smile before he released his breath on a darkened chuckle, clearly contemptuous.

"Oh, I see what this is. You thought I'd just keep you here forever, a cage for my little bird? Hide you away? What a beautiful fucking notion, but you should know better by now that that's not how  _this_ is going to work," Sandor finished as he gestured between himself and Sansa with his index finger.

"How is it going to work then? Tell me," Sansa demanded as she took a step closer to him. She knew she was playing with fire, agitating his already foul temper. A lover she may be, but that hardly meant she needed to be a doormat to his mood swings, a verbal punching bag to his anger.

Sandor stared at her, his eyes moving up and down her form as if blindsided by her courage, or perhaps stupidity, in this moment. He turned away from her, his body now perpendicular to her as he stood at the edge of the bed and stared off towards the French doors leading outside.

"I'll take you home when it's safe," Sandor spat out as if the words left a bitter taste in his mouth. "It's not safe yet."

He had told her before he would take her home, but the conversation had hardly come up since they came here. As their time together progressed their dynamic with one another in unexpected and surprising ways, the topic waned to a silence and instead became the elephant in the room. She would go home, that much was certain, and the question had always been when. Now, the situation was made complicated, and other questions, even more pressing than the first, hung heavy in the back of both their minds. When she went home would they still see one another? If so, how was that supposed to work?

"And then what?" Sansa questioned, unwilling to let the topic of conversation remain taboo for much longer.

That seemed sufficient to stir Sandor's attention, although he did not turn to her. Instead, he turned his head to stare at her from over his shoulder. Sansa's breath caught in her chest and her eyes tentatively met his. For a fleeting moment, she thought he might abandon his anger and call it a truce. That moment, that opportunity, crumbled as his eyes narrowed at her and his mouth contorted into a cruel snarl.

"Then you can get on with your life and I can get on with mine." As soon as the words left his lips, Sandor turned his stare away from her. She knew he would falter if he saw the pained expression cast about her face.

"You're a liar," Sansa murmured beneath her breath as she shook her head. She hadn't thought he heard, but quickly learned how very mistaken she was. Quicker than she could ever have imagined, Sandor snatched her up; both of his hands gripped her upper arms painfully as he yanked her towards him.

"Call me anything you want, but don't ever call me a fucking liar," he seethed as he squeezed her arms hard, undaunted as she yelped out and writhed in his grasp. "I've never lied to you, girl.  _Ever._ " Sandor shook her hard as he emphasized his last word before releasing his grasp.

Sansa's heart raced and her legs felt weak, globs of jello trying to support her weight. With her knees buckling, Sansa sunk to the floor, defeated as she knew she would be.

"So it's the truth then?" Sansa finally managed as she lifted her eyes to Sandor standing over her. "You'd just forget about me and move on with your life like nothing ever happened? You say you can smell a lie a mile away. Well, I can too."

Her last words left her lips in a whimper as the tears came streaming down her face. Finally, his own defeat came, and Sansa saw the remorse thawing the iciness behind his eyes. She watched on bated breath to see him return to her, the man who had left her this morning. Through blind faith, she knew that man - so protective and good to her - was the ghost in the machine. The Hound was nothing more than a ruse; she saw through it plainly enough. Perhaps he knew this, and in that knowledge he couldn't manage to look at her, and instead, set about pacing in front of her. With each step, his breaths grew heavier, almost akin to a pant, and the bulk of his form rippled against the tautness of tensed muscles.

"What the fuck do you want?" Sandor raged as he continued to pace in front of her. "You want to bring me home and introduce me to your dad? You want me and him to just ignore the fact that his career is hinged upon whether or not I rot in a prison cell for the rest of my life?"

Setting a sideways glance towards her, Sandor shook his head in frustration before running both of his hands over his face and through the long locks of his hair.

"No.  _Fuck_  no," he started again as he pulled his hands away from his head and pointed at Sansa. "I don't belong in his world and he doesn't belong in mine. And you, Sansa. You can't just hop from one to the next, cherry pick which 'life' you prefer, when you prefer it."

With her mouth now perpetually agape, Sansa watched as he turned to ice before her once more; any hopes that he might relent were dashed as she stared at him in shock and bewilderment. He stilled in front of her, stopping the methodical rhythm of his pacing steps as he stared down at her. He wanted an answer to something, it would seem; impatiently, his eyes searched her face and grew harder with each passing second of silence on her end.

"Why are you talking like this?" Sansa mewled, her voice quaking and cracking beneath his oppressive stare.

"Like what?" he grunted out in return as he settled his hands on his hips.

"Like I have to choose," Sansa responded softly as the realization finally struck her. Its heaviness drew her eyes to her hands placed in her lap. Silently, she prayed to whatever entities existed in the celestial expanse above, for all the good it did.  _He won't make me choose. He wouldn't do that._

Sansa had told herself those very words earlier today, but whereas earlier she had been sure of their truth, now she was unconvinced. As she felt his stare searing through her, Sansa knew it was her turn to face him now. Lifting her eyes, she met his gaze and found what she knew would be there. For all she knew, it may have been there all along and only now was she forced to notice.

"Oh no," Sansa gasped as she rose to her feet despite her shaky limbs. "No, please.  _Please_  tell me you're not asking me to choose between you and my own father."

At first, he said nothing, but looked away from her. With each second of silence, Sansa felt the tears beginning to well in her eyes once more, until finally, they spilled down her cheeks in steady streams accompanied by soft whimpering sounds.

"Sooner or later you knew this was going to happen," he rasped hoarsely and let his eyes flicker down to hers. Sansa could tell he knew this was wrong; the man had a conscience, after all. Yet he chose those words all the same, and by the way his exterior seemed to harden into stone, he would be sticking by them.

"No, I most certainly did  _not_  think this was going to happen," Sansa wept as her trembling hands balled into fists. Despair and desperation urged her forward as Sansa flung herself against him. Her hands pawed at his chest, her nails softly digging into him as she buried her face against him and shook her head.

"He's the only family I have left. You can't ask me to do this. You can't. You can't do this to me. Please." Countless more times, Sansa repeated those words; each time they became more and more a weakened plea. One of his arms snaked around the small of her back as his fingers clutched against her waist. With his other hand, Sandor lifted her chin so that she would meet his gaze.

"You knew who I was and what I do," he spoke on a lowered voice, although the words still sounded harsh to her ears. "You didn't have to let me touch you, kiss you, want you. But do you honestly expect me to leave this all behind and just follow you back home like some lost fucking puppy?"

"You can't make me choose," Sansa cried out as she struggled against him, writhing in his grasp petulantly. "I won'tchoose."

Relenting, Sandor released his hold on her, and Sansa stumbled backwards away from him.

"Yes, you will," he asserted heartlessly. "I didn't make it that way. It's just how things are," Sandor added as an afterthought of sorts, a buffer to the blow of his words.

As if all the blood rushed from her head at once, Sansa felt herself becoming dizzy and swayed a bit as she took steps backwards from him until the edge of the bed met the back of her legs.

"What if I want to go home?" Sansa inquired breathlessly as she reached out to steady herself against the bed. "What if I chose him, my family?"

Whatever calm that may have descended upon Sandor retreated instantly as her question met his ears. His gaze snapped up to meet her eyes, and Sansa saw that something changed in him, something uncontrollable. Suddenly, Sandor seemed overwhelmed and overpowered by his own sense of desperation. This man - so in control of his own life and used to calling the shots - had just lost control of her. She saw him come undone at this and only then realized the root of his rage with her was obsession.

"Then maybe I wouldn't take you home after all," Sandor fumed through clenched teeth as he snatched her up once more, this time spinning her around so that her back was pressed against his chest. With one of his enormous hands nearly engulfing her entire upper arm in an iron tight grip, Sansa couldn't move as the fronts of her legs were pressed against the bed. His other arm coiled around her abdomen, further securing her in place. She felt his head rest against hers as his lips brushed against her cheek.

"And then you can call me a fucking liar, but I'm not really a liar, am I? I told you I'd come after you if you ever walked away from me, or did you forget? I told you I would come after you because I want to. And I'll always want to because you're what I want. I'm not letting you go."

He had told her that before in much the same position they were in now: tempers flaring, emotions high, blood boiling as she was squeezed into his embrace. But this was different; it was frenzied, it was dark, it was so terribly wrong and convoluted. It was madness.

She wanted to struggle against him, and yet her body was frozen in place as it hummed against the contact; his skin searing as it pressed against hers, and yet her mind was screaming out that this was a travesty against the connection they had forged.

"I don't even have a choice," Sansa bawled as she doubled over within his arms. "You've already decided for me. You can't do this. This isn't you. You're not like this."

Wriggling free from his grasp as her body was wracked with sobs, Sansa crawled onto the bed, scrambling to flee from him. If she could make it to the other side, she could bolt through the French doors and into the darkness beyond. She wanted nothing to do with the Hound. That wasn't the man she wanted. Before she had made it half-way across the bed, Sandor's long arms reached her as his hands easily encircled her ankles and he pulled her back towards him, forcing her to her back as he did.

Sansa struggled feebly, but he was quicker than her and stronger too. His hands pinned her wrists to the bed as he lowered himself to straddle her. His face hovered above hers, his hair dangled down against her cheeks. Although he did not press his full weight on top of her, his presence was overbearing and oppressive.

"I  _can_  do this, already have. I never once claimed to be a good man. Maybe you made that up in your head, saw things that weren't really there. You called me a monster once, do you remember that? You may have had it right all along. Maybe I'm just a bad man. Did you ever think about that?"

Frozen with fear and powerless against him, Sansa squeezed her eyes shut as she trembled beneath him. With all her might, she wished the Hound away, but knew instinctively he would still be there if she opened her eyes again.

"Go away. Just go," she whispered through breathy cries, her lips quivering uncontrollably.

After a few moments, she felt him release his hold on her wrists and his weight lift from off of her. She did not open her eyes, not until she heard the bedroom door slam behind him. Pulling her knees close to her chest, Sansa cradled herself on the bed, pulling her limbs into a fetal position as she released silent sobs at the nightmare made real. To her horror, the monster within the man she thought she could love had revealed himself.

But this wasn't the sort of love she had envisioned for herself. This wasn't fairy tale love with shining knights and declarations of a pure sort of devotion. This was the dark side of love, the sort that no one ever spoke of. It was the type of love that sought to possess, consume, obsess, and  _own_.

And this was the truth behind closed doors. These men had wives and they had mistresses. And those women were meant to endure; meant to remind themselves, and one another that this wasn't easy. It was  _never_ supposed to be easy. Any women who had mistakenly thought that their life could be blissful was branded a fool and reminded that the men never promised them such happiness. They told them from the beginning that it would be a hard life.

And still these women stayed by their man's side anyway. Even when their men would scream and shout their day's frustrations, leave them hanging time and time again, these women were trained to dry their eyes, fix their make-up, and soldier on. If she were to take a page from Mirabelle's book, Sansa knew what it would read: smile pretty and don't make a fuss. Turn a blind eye to the other woman because there will almost always be another woman, no matter which side you fall on, wife or mistress. Lie, cheat, and steal for the sake of your man and your family. And no matter what you do, don't ever think for a moment that your life is truly your own.

The day had been dark and now the night was even darker. And all around, Sansa could find no beauty in this darkness.

* * *

Damian stared down at his phone vibrating on the kitchen table. The number that appeared on the screen, although not saved as a contact, was familiar to him. He let it ring as he licked the rolling paper in his hands and pressed the edge tightly into place, securing the prized filler packed inside. On the fourth ring, Damian snatched up the phone and took the call.

"Well, I'll be goddamned," he answered, glazing over the normal formalities of speaking with this particular individual. "Am I speaking with the dead resurrected?"

The man on the other end wasn't amused if his silence was anything to go by.

"I knew it was coming, so I bailed," the man finally answered, his voice firm and low. "He's fucking predictable, one of his weaknesses." The man wasn't in a situation where he could talk long, that much was obvious by the hushed tones of his voice.

"Yeah, that and tight pussy," Damian mumbled with a laugh as he settled the joint between his lips. He couldn't blame the man, of course. Pussy was compelling and had crumbled men more powerful than Sandor Clegane, even.

"I need to know when he's leaving," the man pressed further with a sudden sense of urgency.

And there it was; the reason for the phone call. Delighted, Damian flicked his lighter against the end of the joint and pulled in a hit. The ball was in his court now. He had the upper hand in this situation, and it had only taken a grand total of thirty seconds to get it.

"And why the fuck would I give you that information?" Damian shot back on an exhale, beaming as he smiled into the speaker of his phone.

"Because I'd be paying you," the man retorted, the agitation flaring as his voice strained with obvious frustration.

"So is he," Damian responded flatly, unimpressed and growing agitated himself. This was going to become a numbers game, and that was a game he  _always_  won.

"It's no secret you align yourself with whoever pays you the most," the man fumed venomously as he struggled to keep his voice low.

"I do have a fondness for the green," Damian confided with a sweeping smile. "This I won't deny, but Sandor Clegane is a boss. You're just a capo on a power trip. Don't you feel I should be compensated for this discrepancy in the power hierarchy?"

Damian could hear rustling through the phone, likely the sound of the man shifting in his seat. It was music to his ears.  _Feel uncomfortable, you fuck, and take your sweet time. As long as I get paid._

"5G's. That's it."

When the man's voice finally broke the silence, Damian nodded to himself. It was more than he expected and probably much more than the man should pay for information. It meant he was desperate, and that was something Damian was going to exploit to his advantage.

"7G's," he countered defiantly, entirely doubting that his bluff was going to get called.

"Fine," the man grumbled. "You'll get your payout for the information after it's done."

Damian chuckled to himself. The man had just been robbed blind, not realizing this phone call was about three times more expensive than it needed to be.

"Sunday," Damian finally offered after taking another hit of the joint. "That clown of an underboss let it slip today. Things didn't go down quite like they were supposed to with Ned Stark, so I would bet on those plans changing though. I wouldn't be surprised if he was on the move tomorrow."

The man seemed pleased with that information as he let it digest with a dose of silence before speaking again.

"I need it to look like it's coming from the outside." The man's voice, infused with a renewed sense of urgency, was now fractured with a bit of pleading.

"I thought you mafia men didn't give a fuck if it looked like a mafia job or not. You're scared of him. You're scared of what might happen if this doesn't go off the way you have planned." Damian saw through this bullshit. He knew what this was about before the man broke in once more.

"I need you to pull your connections." The man was beginning to raise his voice a bit, the prospect of doing the hit himself quickly becoming the only option.

"The Kings," Damian laughed mockingly into the phone. "I see what this is. You want it to look like some thugs from the ghetto rolled up and offed your boss and that pretty little white bitch. And what about the blow back, when your men are out looking for blood?"

"I'll take care of that," the man growled into the phone, his patience wearing thin. "There won't be any blow back."

Damian saw where this was going and contemplated his options. The pay out for the hit would need to be enormous for it to be worth it. This fucker would have to pay for his own boss' hit with Moriarti money. That shit wasn't going to stay under wraps for long. This was too much, even by his fucked up standards. He only had one true choice.

"No, man. You take care of the hit yourself," Damian answered with finality. "I can't get involved in that shit."

"You suddenly have morals now?" the man spat back; somehow he must have come into this conversation convinced he'd get his own damn hit taken care of for him. Damian shook his head. This fucker was a pathetic excuse of a mafia man, even Damian knew that.

"No, but unlike your bitch-ass, I understand who I shouldn't go around fucking with. And your boss is someone that shouldn't be fucked with. You, of all people, should know that."

The man said nothing to this, but rather laughed quietly on the other end.  _He is out of his goddamn mind._

"So you're really going to do it, then?" Damian questioned, not understanding at all how this was ever going to be successfully pulled off. Sure, Sandor Clegane was a thorn in his side and he wouldn't exactly be shedding any tears if the man was dead, but a hit like this wasn't something that gets thrown together last minute.

"Sandor Clegane will be dead by this time tomorrow," the man spoke into the phone, his voice steady and assured. "And that little cunt he's with too. You don't honestly think I'm the only one orchestrating all of this, do you? Here's something for you to ponder: how many people want Clegane dead, or at least all to themselves to do what they want with? Think about that, you greedy fuck."

With that, the man hung up, and Damian set his phone down on the table. If what the man said was true and there really was more than just one person behind this hit, then he had no doubts that Sandor Clegane would be dead by tomorrow. And Sansa Stark too.

* * *

 

 

_Mafia dictionary_

**Che peccato:** What a pity, what a shame

 **Associate** **:** A person that works with the Mafia, but isn't a made man. Damian would be an associate.

 **Mannagge:** Going to war with a rival family

 **Cugine:**  A young guy who wants to be a made man. Although E.Z. is a made man, Sandor uses this as an insult.

 **Taste:** A percentage of money paid to a made man or associate for a particular task.

 **G's:**  1 G=$1000

_Song List (I forgot last chapter...sorry!)_

**Ch. 9**

"This is What Makes Us Girls" Lana Del Rey

"Hard to Concentrate" Red Hot Chili Peppers

**Ch. 10**

"House of the Rising Sun" The Animals

"Sooner or Later" Trifonic

"Love Is Blindness" Jack White

"Closer" Kings of Leon

* * *

 **A/N:** As always, thank you kindly for all the love and support. Once again, I want to thank my betas as well :) Mendedheart did lots of research on punctuation and whatnot, sweetheart that she is. She is the Queen of Punctuation Knowledge. A round of applause for her grace!

For those that did not catch this on the last update (I added it as an afterthought), I'm on tumblr, although I'm still trying to figure out how to use the site.

supernovadragoncat is my name on there.

Follow me, if you will.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: 
> 
> Graphic violence, language, and mild sexual assault (This occurs towards the end of the chapter. I assure it is not graphic in any way, but I have put a * next to the paragraphs which contain this event. If you so choose, you can enjoy the rest of the chapter and just skip over the * paragraphs and you wont be missing anything significant to the plot.)

 

**  
Gods and Monsters**

Chapter 11

"It's getting dark, too dark to see…"

                                          -Bob Dylan

* * *

The house had stirred late, later than Sandor would have wanted. Everyone lingered in their respective beds (or couch, in his case) well into the morning hours, perhaps finally gifted with slumber right as the sun began to rise.

Sandor was no exception in this regard. It was well past four in the morning when his head finally hit a pillow on the couch and delirium ushered him into a fitful sleep. His mind ran wild even in the darkness behind his eyes, and the dreams born from all the disjointed thoughts had been strange. Some would call them nightmares, a cause for waking in cold sweats and gasping for breaths until relief rushed forth to drive away the residual terror. To Sandor, the nightmare was not those disconcerting visions which had punctuated soft sleep. Those were pale in comparison to all that had transpired earlier in the evening. Much like nightmares, those events seemed distant now– obscure and untouchable, but resonating so deeply and profoundly within his being that the reality was rendered a dangerous undertow which churned beneath an eerie stillness.

The storm of his rage had been quick to settle, its mercurial violence a mockery of the control he assumed over every other aspect of his life. Like a man possessed by his own demons, Sandor had laid hands on her. Some fucked up part of himself, perhaps the demons sated and satisfied, whispered excuses. 'It's not as if you hit her,' this voice would say, equal parts defensive and assured. 'You didn't  _truly_ hurt her.'

The unbidden thoughts made him sick; his stomach burned, and he could feel the bile rising towards the back of his throat until the taste lingered on his tongue. He knew not what was worse: what he had done or the primitive urge to justify those actions and excuse them for this reason or the other.

True enough, he hadn't hit her, but the effect had been the same regardless of what he did to her. He pushed, pulled, and pinned her down. He screamed, shouted, and spewed hateful words that, to remember, left him reeling at his own spitefulness towards her. Pinned beneath him, Sansa had been shaking, every limb feebly convulsing against the weight he bore down on her, aware even in the lunacy of rage that he could easily overpower her. With her eyes squeezed shut, she couldn't look at him, and perhaps that was for the best. He knew what he would have found in those blue eyes, and it would have unmanned him.

They were back where they started. Back where it all began the night his curiosity, and some might argue obsession, with her was sparked: him on top of her, pressing her painfully into the ground and seething threats in her ear as she squirmed against him, and her eyes– flooding with mistrust, fear, and panic– pleadingly finding his until he relented. In the end, he left her– a girl who had very little left in this world– shaking and sobbing. It was a cruel form of abandonment; a betrayal of the heart which, perhaps, could never be undone.

When Sandor had emerged from the bedroom, the house was all but empty, his men having scurried away lest they became the next target of their boss' fury. Only Mirabelle and Bronn remained, and although they averted their stares away from him, Sandor knew that disappointed eyes followed him across the room as he sunk into the couch and buried his face into the palms of his hands. After some time, he had felt the cushion next to him gently depress with Mirabelle's weight. He knew it was her. Only his baby sister was brave enough to test the waters of his mood while remaining cognizant of his anger, tiptoeing around it with a dancer's finesse. In cautioned tones, she had spoken to him after a heavy silence settled between them.

_'Did you hurt her, Sandor? Did you…you didn't…hit her?'_

Lifting his gaze, he had seen fear in his sister's eyes; a terror which was normally reserved for Gregor, but now was peering out towards him. Mirabelle had looked at him with the same sense of desperate worry and helplessness, petrified that Sandor had done something awful, something which was morally unforgivable in her mind as well as Sansa's.

_'No. I would never do that, even at my worst. I would never hurt her like that.'_

It was laughable, almost, to even have said those words to Mirabelle as if they were some sort of consolation. To parameterize his rage, to pretend it abided by certain boundaries, was an absolute fucking farce and he knew it. The lines Sandor would not cross in his right mind became blurred as anger took hold, and he lost himself to its crippling will.

Shame and guilt quickly followed in anger's wake, and Sandor had found himself rejoiced by this. He had often wondered about the monster which existed inside of his own brother; was his brother's rage so different from his own? Outwardly, Sandor knew he was not Gregor. Time and time again, the path of his life diverged in such a way that he knew he was traveling in a different direction than his brother, and yet he and Gregor always seemed to circle back to one another. It left Sandor with the sickening impression that they were fated to end up the same; that their own respective beasts of wrath could easily fraternize, and while Sandor fought against his, Gregor had let himself succumb to it long ago. Neither shame nor guilt were bedfellows of Gregor Clegane, and in this way, Sandor knew he had staved off the beast, despite all the damage that had been done.

It had all reduced down to fear– fear he might lose her– but if it came between losing her and destroying her, Sandor feared more for that uncontrollable beast within him who would choose to extinguish her light before ever letting it willingly leave him in darkness. And when the remorse came– so quickly on the tail of fury– Sandor knew that somewhere the humanity remained within him. Flesh and blood, a man makes mistakes, but only a true monster refuses atonement in favor of pride.

Mirabelle had always freely shared her fears with Sandor; small fears which held the promise of eating away at her to crippling fears which haunted her through the years. With his sister patiently perched next to him on the couch, it had been Sandor who shared his fears for perhaps the first time in as long as he could remember, and very likely, the first time in the twenty-nine years of his life.

_'I fucked up, Mirabelle. I fucked up and I don't know if I can make it right.'_

Mirabelle had neither excused his behavior, nor did she sugar coat the reality to make it palatable. Never one to lie, Mirabelle acknowledged the very real possibility that Sansa may indeed never forgive him. Yet his sister delineated her words and illuminated perhaps his only chance at repentance; words spoken in anger perhaps could be forgiven, but to force the girl to choose between him and her father was unimaginably cruel. The lines of morality became clear once more.

Hours slipped by without notice as Sandor opened up to his sister, and she, in turn, listened without judgment or interruption. Well past midnight, the conversation turned to the memories of their own family. They talked at length about their mother, resurrected her in ways they had never done before. They dwelled on her sadness, exchanged stories of childhood interpretations of that woman's mortal sorrow. Their father came up in conversation as well, and Mirabelle tearfully relayed seeing the light leave his eyes the night Gregor squeezed the life out of him. The specters of their parents seemed to stay with Mirabelle and Sandor throughout the darkest hours of the night, watching as the two shared their most prized secrets and most profound fears with one another while burrowed together underneath a blanket on the couch.

Sandor found himself riveted by his own sister as she spoke of things she had never told him before: how she had seen her own dreams dashed to pieces, her struggle to make the most of what life had dealt her, her near debilitating need for protection and the constant fear of being alone. Implicitly, he knew these things about Mirabelle, and yet he listened, spellbound, as she spoke so candidly about them to him. His sister suffered from her own demons, but the woman knew her heart, inside and out. She stared down her own shortcomings and resolved herself to rise above them the best she could. Sandor was in envy and awe of her ability to do this.

Resting against one another, shoulder to shoulder, Mirabelle and Sandor had each divulged all their secrets. They had emptied themselves of all the gnawing fears and nagging uncertainties. Only one secret remained, and it had been the elephant in the room since the day Mirabelle and Bronn arrived.

_'Are you in love with her?'_

And that's when his greatest confession came, the one he had nearly turned himself inside out to keep from letting slip. Sandor said nothing, and he most certainly did not meet his sister's sleepy gaze. Instead, he nodded his head, adamant that the verbal confession would meet Sansa's ears first for whatever it was worth. Therein laid the source of his peculiar dreams: the ways in which he might tell her and all the opportunities she might take to spurn him.

Sandor had never been in love before; he fucked women and was done with them. Some women would stick around, perhaps seeing the challenge in making him feel for them what he now felt for Sansa, the thought of bringing a man like the Hound to his knees too appealing to pass up. Without concern or consideration, though, Sandor would unsympathetically explain he had gotten from them all they were good for: a decent fuck. Most got angry at this particularly cold confession, while others cried rehearsed tears, but none of them offered themselves up to him, wet and willing, again. All except one of these women who was seemingly resilient to his unapologetic rejections. As if checking in to see if he might have had a change of heart, she would come around every so often and spread her legs for him, letting him take her as roughly as he wanted. It made no matter. Sandor had slept with more women than he cared to count yet he loved none, regardless of how often they came around.

Sansa was the only exception he was willing to make, and yet he had lost control with her, showed her a side of himself he hoped he could hide. Somehow that seemed wrong, though. While he knew little of love, Sandor knew with a certainty love makes no promises to survive the storms of wrath. It is not unconditional in that way, nor should it be. With the same amount of certainty, he knew he wasn't a monster and therefore, would seek whatever redemption he could.

Not knowing where to begin, Sandor wanted to go to her now, wanted to rouse her from sleep with his lips lavishing warm kisses up her neck and down to all her favorite spots, those secret places only he knew about. He wanted to pull her into his arms and press her body against his. He wanted to breathe her in while he murmured into her ear how sorry he was and that it would never happen again. Up from the couch and down the hallway, Sandor resolved himself to tell her and show her over and over again until she believed him.

However, he stopped short of the bedroom door, his hand hovering over the door knob. Perhaps this might work with some simple lover's quarrel– a few biting words exchanged back and forth at the height of tempers mutually flaring. This was dreadfully different. The rift between them could not be spanned with caresses meant to pass for contrition. Rather, theirs was a gaping expanse that threatened to set them perpetually at odds with one another.

Ducking into the bathroom instead, Sandor opted for a hot shower to tame his fretful mind while the warm water worked through the tension firing in his shoulders. He emerged clean, but no less unsettled. An hour passed before Mirabelle and Bronn finally stirred and lackadaisically readied themselves for the day before finally gathering up their belongings.

At a quarter past eleven, Sandor, Mirabelle, and Bronn found themselves in an awkward silence as they perched in various places throughout the living room. Bronn mindlessly followed the seam of the couch cushion with his fingers, shifting uncomfortably now and then. Mirabelle did much of the same, picking fuzz off of a pillow with lips pursed and eyes narrowed in thought. With one arm resting on the mantle and the other hand shoved in his pocket, Sandor stood by the fireplace and kept a watchful eye towards the hallway. He was tired of sitting and sick of waiting. His body craved momentum and movement.

"Zulu and Thomas are meeting us here with Vinny around 11:45 or so," Bronn informed after the prelude of a nervous cough. "They'll follow us back to Moriarti's. The drive should be split up in two days. Carson City would be a good stopping place."

Although this was news to Sandor, the inflection in Bronn's voice was questioning and cautiously seeking his seal of approval. Sandor let his eyes flicker to Bronn as he gave a curt nod before his gaze was pulled back towards the hallway.

"Fine," he replied, preoccupied. "Mirabelle, can you go check on her?"

He did not care to admit the thought tumbling heedlessly throughout his mind; the one which suggested Sansa, in fear or perhaps her own anger, had slipped away into the night. With the dangerous assumption of her dependence on him, he hadn't paid that possibility any mind until now, underestimating the likelihood that he cornered her into choosing her own free will over his overbearance.

Sandor watched as Mirabelle shuffled across the room and disappeared down the shadowed hallway. He could hear his sister's tentative movements, perhaps brought on by the same fears as his. A gentle rap at the door, a suffocating silence, the metallic groan as the door opened, a soft exchange of female voices, too faint to make out words. Sandor listened intently as he fought with the urge to barrel down the hallway and extract Sansa from the bedroom himself. When the door closed again, he bit his bottom lip and set about pacing in front of the fireplace, his footfalls rousing Bronn's attention as the man watched him with a faint smile pulling at his lips.

When he heard the bedroom door open again and footsteps coming down the hall, Sandor stopped in place and stared in earnest towards the hallway. Palms sweaty and heart thrumming in his chest, he watched and exhaled a deep breath, inadvertently audible, when Mirabelle returned to her place on the couch, no Sansa in sight.

"She's ready to go," Mirabelle stated with a fleeting glance towards Sandor. He waited for more, fully expecting further insights from his sister. Legs crossed and arms wrapped around her chest, Mirabelle said nothing despite his obvious interest in the matter.

Frustrated, Sandor took long strides towards Mirabelle until he was standing in front of her.

"And? She doesn't want to come out here, is that it?" he pressed impatiently as his eyes bore into Mirabelle, his blood pressure slowly rising.

"Not if you're out here. Her words, not mine," Mirabelle finally answered as she threw her hands up in the air to communicate her unwillingness to get in the middle of it.

No doubt those were Sansa's words. He knew he deserved it, and still he couldn't help his hands curling into tight fists, the twitching at the corner of his lips, and the steady rise and fall of his chest as his breaths came in hot spurts of air through clenched teeth. Rubbing his face with both hands, Sandor opened his mouth to speak, but the words died in the back of his throat as a broken groan.

This did not escape Mirabelle as she finally pushed herself to her feet and corralled his pacing form by holding him steady, fingers firmly gripping his forearms.

"Sandor, you need to be patient with her," she schooled, sounding so uncharacteristically forceful that all he could do was stare at his sister. "You scared the shit out of her, and she's still a bit shaken. How is she supposed to know whether or not you're still enraged?"

Still entangled in Mirabelle's grasp, Sandor narrowed his eyes towards the hallway as if to release his frustration towards the symbol of Sansa's purposeful avoidance.

"She can come out here and see for herself, for one," he shot back defiantly as a slow and steady heat flooded his face.

Pushing her weight against him, Mirabelle shook Sandor the best she could, the force hardly enough to elicit even the slightest swaying of his upper body. Her intentions were clear enough though, despite her failed efforts to capture his attention that way.

"You're not going to gain any ground with her by getting worked up. Just give her a little space and time."

He knew she was right. What exactly would he accomplish by hotfooting it down the hallway, pounding down the door, and demanding that Sansa speak to him? For now, he'd have to be satisfied with what contentment he gained from knowing that she at least didn't bolt during the night.

Still, the curiosity persisted– the need to at least see her with his own eyes, to perhaps begin the long road back to her good graces. For this reason, he lingered near the fireplace, resumed his perching with a clear line of sight towards the hallway. With a renewed focus, he watched and waited, scarcely shifting his eyes lest she slip by quietly and unnoticed. His resolve faltered momentarily when Vinny arrived with Zulu and Thomas in tow; the doorbell rang as the clock turned to a quarter till noon, Mirabelle dashed towards the door, Bronn hauled their bags out to the car, and Sandor, needing to hold up appearances and regain some semblance of control over himself, greeted Vinny with a shake of the hand and a distracted exchange of words. Here and there he succeeded in cutting unnoticed sideways glances towards the hall while activity flurried around him.

Lights were turned off, doors were locked, final bathroom runs were taken, bags were loaded into cars, and still no sign of her. Sandor told the others to wait outside while he hovered near his vantage point. He still needed to get his and Sansa's bags out of the bedroom, and that was the excuse he stuck with as his eyes once more zeroed in towards the hallway.

The house was now silent, save the occasional sound of raucous laughter or car doors slamming which permeated in from outside. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, Sandor could hear the bedroom door slowly opening, the sound of its bottom faintly sliding against carpet music to his ears. The door shut as gently as it was opened, and soft footsteps padded down the hallway, hardly detectable even with the house now silent as a crypt.

She did not see him, not at first. Her movements were graceful and obviously meant to stir as little attention as possible. Clearly, she had waited until the house fell silent, fully expecting to be the only soul left inside. With one of her bags slung over her shoulder, her eyes were downcast as she made her way out of the shadows of the hallway and into the light pouring through the open living area.

Sandor swallowed hard as he watched her, tried his damnedest to still his breaths lest she hear him. Her hair looked polished as it caught the light, creating the illusion of a gradient of flames framing the delicate features of her solemn face. She was pale, as if the life had been drained out her, and yet it seemed as if she had deliberately taken time with her appearance. Every strand of cascading waves of hair was in place; if she was tired, he would never know, for the makeup covered whatever visible blemishes of heartache he had inflicted on her, and her outfit was casual yet thoughtfully put together: a thin, oversized knit sweater which fell off one of her shoulders and hung midway down her arm was paired with denim shorts showcasing the flawless expanse of her legs.

Had he not been staring at her, mesmerized by the sight of her as if seeing her for the first time, she may have slipped by him and never noticed he was there. Yet it was the hunger in his stare, the magnetism that forever sought to propel them towards one another, which undoubtedly roused her attention. When she finally lifted her gaze through thick, darkened lashes, she stopped in mid step. Instinctively, he took a step towards her, fighting tooth and nail to make it as slow and unintimidating as possible. Doe-eyed, she stared at him, her full, pink lips parting with something between surprise and hesitance to speak. Unwittingly, he mirrored her body language and felt his mouth fall open slightly, although he didn't quite know what to say or if he should even speak. Instead he studied her while remorse and longing lashed at his heart.

For a fleeting moment, he saw it in her too: the reciprocated urge to let nature take its course and allow their bodies to collide, to gravitate towards their rightful places wrapped up in one another, lips meeting, bodies humming, and hearts racing. He had hardly blinked an eye when he saw it evaporate away, and as if remembering some pre-determined resolution of strength, Sansa Stark turned to ice and stone in front of him. Whatever warmth and softness she had allowed to pour through was immediately dammed off with reserve and uncharacteristic coldness.

He watched as her head lifted and her spine straightened until she was at her full height, her gaze suddenly regarding him with indifference and disdain. She was looking right through him, as if he were some apparition unworthy of even passing contemplation. With lips sealed shut and eyes turning towards the front door, Sansa fluttered out of the house without uttering a word or casting so much as a glance backwards.

Admittedly, her frostiness stung, although he knew it was what he deserved. He could burn her with the fire of his rage, and she would answer back with iciness; both were equally capable of destroying the other, although, in doing so, they would destroy themselves, as well, until nothing remained but the vaporous forms of what they once were.

Sandor gathered up the remaining bags and did a final glance-over of the house before heading outside. With seven bodies and three cars, the logistics of who would ride with who had been the last thing on Sandor's mind until he noticed his car devoid of a certain red-headed ice queen. Shaking his head, Sandor fumbled with his keys until he was able to pop open the trunk of his car and unburden himself of the bags.

With a knowing and sympathetic glance, Vinny paced towards him and patted him firmly on the back.

"The…uh…car situation was changed up a bit. I've been wanting to catch up with you anyway, so it all worked out, I suppose. I'll ride with you, boss."

Sandor barely heard him, but nodded anyway as his eyes examined the other two cars. Zulu and Thomas were exchanging laughs in the front seat of Vinny's car as they waited to begin the convoy. The backseat was empty, and although Sandor could not see through the deeply tinted windows of Bronn's car, he knew that's where Sansa would be.

With a shake of the head and the release of an exasperated breath, Sandor slumped into his car and gazed mindlessly towards the dashboard as Vinny climbed in.

Vinny was an insightful man despite his propensity to talk, perhaps because he liked hearing his own voice, or maybe to fill silences with jokes and anecdotes. The man figured out quickly enough that Sandor wasn't in the mood to talk. He was hardly the type of person who favored small talk anyway, even on the occasions where his spirits were high. If anything, he preferred the solitude of his own mind, though in times like these, it was a double-edged sword; he was quickly caught up in his restless thoughts, and yet he didn't care to share those thoughts with anyone else.

After a few hours had passed, Vinny had reached his threshold of silence.

"Problems with the old lady?" Vinny casually inquired, although it was obvious he had been stewing on the question for quite some time.

Sandor's jaw set tightly into place as he ground his teeth together. Some sort of hypnosis had finally taken ahold of him as the lines of the road whizzed by in a blur. The thoughts remained, but he had reached a sort of numbness with them. He had accepted this as the best he was going to get for now. All he could hope for now was that time would slip by while he was in this self-induced somnambulatory stupor.

"Listen, boss," Vinny continued, well-intentioned, but irritating all the same. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want, but this shit happens. Kari and I fight like that all the time. It's passion, ya know? We fight, we fuck, one minute we're at each other's throats and the next minute I'm on my knees begging her not to leave me. That's how love works in  _this_  life. It ain't easy."

_This life_.  _This life where we destroy the ones we love._

But then Vinny wasn't talking about love. The man loved to fuck Kari, his goomah, loved to lavish her with attention and expensive gifts he had long ago stopped giving his wife.

"And what about Louisa?" Sandor responded flatly as his eyes instinctively floated up towards the rear-view mirror and the vision of Bronn's car contained within it.

The man did not respond right away, but instead sighed deeply and pressed two of his thick fingers to his forehead while squeezing his eyes shut.

"Louisa is the mother of my child," Vinny finally offered as he gestured towards Sandor with one hand. "She's been with me through all the shit since day one. I will love her forever for that."

Shaking his head and exhaling out a snort, Sandor cast his eyes towards Vinny. The man, like so many of his other men, regarded their wives with the same fondness people reserve for their dogs; they love them because they're loyal, know they'll be waiting patiently at home, and understand they will be content as long as they get thrown a bone every now and then.

"But you don't fight with her," Sandor remarked derisively. Maybe it was ass backwards, but in his mind, when couples stop fighting it's because they have nothing left to fight for.

"We've reached a comfortable place in our relationship," Vinny confirmed with a nod, clearly glossing over Sandor's tone. "I give her a good life, and she gives me freedom. She doesn't ask questions, and she doesn't make trouble. Louisa's a stand up gal, and I love her for that. We  _all_ love our women for that."

A stand up gal. In other words, Louisa would go down in flames to keep Vinny's mafia ties under wraps. A stand up gal was a martyr for the cause, regardless of how their man treated them.

"Sansa's a sweet girl," Vinny continued fondly, although there was an assertiveness that undercut his words, "but she's young and she didn't grow up in the life like a lot of the other girls. Either she learns now that this is how it's gonna be, or maybe you oughta cut her loose after all the shit with your brother settles down."

_Disposable. He thinks she's disposable._  With a quietly indrawn breath, Sandor worked to remain calm and to collect what self-control he had. Vinny's words were the anthem of a growing number of his men, and yet the man spoke them as if he were the culprit behind the rally cry. Sandor was well aware that behind the scenes Vinny handled his crew with a heavy hand, one which invoked the spirit of the Sicilian mafia; tradition was king, and the American influence on Italian roots was regarded with furtive bitterness.

"I'm not cutting her loose," Sandor growled as his jaw ached with the tension he held in it. "Not unless she wants me to." The last part was added as a concession on his own part, one which Vinny couldn't possibly understand. Although Sansa was not here to hear it come off his lips, he knew, somewhere within him, he was beginning to mean it.

"Then she needs to learn what's expected of her," Vinny quietly added as he stared out the window.

His words were simply spoken and offered with some misplaced voice of authority on the matter. The man could have his wife and his goomahs too, but there was no way in hell he was going to strong-arm Sandor into doing with Sansa what so many of the men did with their woman.

"Don't fuck with me, Vinny," Sandor seethed out, his tone a groaning admonition. "You want to know if Sansa Stark is going to be a stand up girl, and if she's not, you want to get rid of her, send her back to wherever the fuck it is she can call home and be done with it."

"All I'm sayin' is that I want what's best for you and for this organization," Vinny reassured, although Sandor knew it was complete and utter bullshit. "She's either in or she's out. We make it very simple."

"Her situation isn't that simple and you know it," Sandor fired back, eyes wandering once more towards the rear-view mirror as he suddenly realized that she needed to be in the car with  _him_. Momentarily, he had become so consumed by what had happened between himself and Sansa that he had lost sight of the bigger picture, which was the atmosphere of danger they had found themselves firmly planted in.

Vinny followed Sandor's eyes to the rear-view mirror and a smile suddenly formed on the man's lips, one which succeeded in immediately setting Sandor ill-at-ease.

"I do know it. But I'm left to wonder, are you letting her hang out in this grey area just because she's  _your_  girl?"

Although his tone was deliberately guised as harmless, the allegation was clear. Sandor couldn't help but laugh. A dark, sardonic chuckle rolled from his lips as Vinny stared at him with eyes clouded over in confusion and concern.

"Vinny, you're like a brother to me, you know that?" Sandor chortled. "We all know what my real brother is like, and I don't think it's any big secret that I have no qualms putting a bullet in his skull and being done with it. So imagine how easy it would be for me to do the same to, say, someone who isn't my own flesh and blood, but still crosses me."

Sandor's laughter had stopped, the convoluted mess of potential betrayals and promised danger no longer amusing.

Vinny cut an austere glance towards Sandor, quickly examining the man next to him and silently evaluating his own words before speaking.

"I don't know, boss. I would ask Marco, but no one's heard from him. But then, E.Z. might know a thing or two about what you're capable of. It seems you can order a hit on your capo, but you can't take out one of your own made men yourself. It seems to me I no longer know which side you're on.  _Che pecatto._ "

Holding his eyes to the rear-view mirror once more, Sandor nodded his head.

"A shame, indeed."

* * *

Outside the Starlite Motel, Sansa waited in the car. With her arms and legs crossed about one another and one foot nervously bobbing up and down, she stared at the neon sign looming overhead with a petulant frown. Donning the tacky, misspelled name of the motel, the sign betrayed the establishment's age. With sweeping geometric shapes, an incandescent starburst as a nod to its namesake, and other "space age" motifs, the motel was clearly a relic of the 1950's, or at least tried to appear as such.

Rotating a gaze over her shoulder, Sansa could see a single row of rooms through the rear window of the car. Not only did the motel sound like a place adulterous men took cheap prostitutes, it looked like one as well. The baby blue stucco façade clashed horrifically with each room's dirt brown door situated adjacent to one large, rectangular window to the outside, yellowed curtains drawn shut to offer whatever privacy they could.

The drive had been painstakingly long, and yet Sansa couldn't quite remember the bulk of it; the memory was a blur of open highway and forested scenery, which had eventually given way to the desolation of desert. Her attention had been roused as they crossed the California-Nevada border as her gaze met the highway sign welcoming her into a new state.

"Welcome to Nevada, The Silver State" _,_ it read– lackluster in a way which was befitting her current situation.

It didn't matter which state they were in. For all she cared, they could zigzag through the western half of America and it wouldn't make a bit of difference to her. As long as she was away from home, she imagined she would continue to feel as though her entire life had caved in on itself, leaving her to sort out what was left amongst the debris. Constantly, her thoughts were pulled to her father. Questions lingered in the back of her mind, and yet she doubted Sandor would grace her with a full story of what happened yesterday, beginning to end. And therein lay the supreme insult to injury; his unwillingness to give her just that bit of happiness. Sandor could treat her now as she had expected him to treat her from the beginning. After all, his kindness towards her had been unexpected, to say the least. To deny her what little remained of her family when he himself knew what it was like to claim only one individual as your kin was remarkably cruel, even for the Hound.

Wistful thoughts played about her mind as Sansa had stared up at the clouds passing above, wondering where in the world her father was, if he was looking for her, if he would come for her. The clouds would break, and Sansa would remember that even if her father did come for her, Sandor would never let her go. She had seen the look in eyes last night, and it terrified her far more than she would allow herself to fully admit. Deeper into Nevada, the clouds began to thicken from wisps of cotton against a blue sky to grey masses clumping together and conspiring to storm. By then, fatigue had caught up with her.

With the backseat of the car all to herself, she could have tried to get some sleep and probably would have benefited greatly from it. Crying herself to sleep the night before hardly meant her slumber was peaceful. She awoke early this morning to find herself feeling much as she did when she fell asleep: sick to her stomach with a resuscitated sense of fear and uncertainty and with the slow, droning pain of what must be a broken heart. With a sobering bit of reality in the darkened, early hours of morning, Sansa had fully discerned the fact that she was now  _truly_ alone.

Before she opened her eyes, she had prayed to whatever God was listening; prayed that it was all just a terrible nightmare and that she would find Sandor's body melded against hers and his arms lovingly cradling her while he slept. She could tell him that it had been a manifestation of her collective fears: him being the horrible, heartless monster he had once claimed he was, him seething hurtful words at her, him neither showing any shred of concern for her well-being nor offering his compassion in a situation he had created for her. Sandor would laugh and call her his loony bird. He would assure her it was, indeed just a bad dream, that none of it would ever really happen. He would pull her close and kiss her soundly until she believed the reassurances he spoke.

It wasn't a dream though, and when she awoke alone in the bed with nothing but her memories, the tears came freely and of their own accord. Time passed, and still the tears came in quiet streams, saturating the pillow beneath her head. An hour, or maybe two, passed this way. Sansa cried until she was certain all the tears she possessed had already been shed. When her shaky breaths had evened out and her eyes grew heavy with the fatigue of crying, she began to think of her mother. In the blessed stillness of her mind, Sansa sought out the woman's face, so much like her own, and for the first time, she spoke to the remnant of her mother's memory.

"Momma, I need you," she had whispered into the darkness before the crest of dawn. "I don't know what to do. I need you. I have no one. I  _need_ you." Over and over, she whispered those words to the heavens until her eyes closed once more, and the tranquility of sleep offered her its favor. When she awoke again, the sun was streaming through the bedroom, bright and warm against her face, and by some resolute and intrinsic knowledge of survival, Sansa knew what she needed to do. Without a second thought, she peeled herself out of bed despite her urge to curl up beneath the covers and hide away forever. With quiet steps, she paced towards the bathroom, battling against the bed's warm beckoning along the way.

After scrubbing herself clean in the shower, Sansa got dressed and fixed her hair, straightening the long tresses and brushing them until they shone like polished copper. With a little powder, blush, and mascara, Sansa looked like some version of herself. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she was pleased, regardless of the way her eyes seemed to resonate all the pain she held in her heart. It made no matter, she had decided. She wouldn't look at him anyway. She would walk past him without so much as a glance, speak to him only when she absolutely needed to, and would avoid him as best she could.  _You just need to survive_ , she reminded herself.  _Just get through this. One day at a time, just get through_.

With her head held up high and resolved to channel the same sort of strength she had seen countless times in her own mother, Sansa had finally retreated from the bedroom when the house fell silent. At the end of the hall and half-way towards her goal of reaching the front door, Sansa found that he had been waiting for her.

Of course, he would wait for her. She had been a fool to think he would let her become a wallflower in his life; some girl who existed, but was never really seen. He would  _always_ see her, she knew then. When she had lifted her eyes to him, the startling way in which her heart seemed to fissure with want had nearly left her breathless, both with its intensity as well as the anger she felt towards herself for even feeling that way. If anyone deserved her anger, it was him, and yet the battle within her being had only just begun. She was quickly falling to pieces in front of him.

Sansa knew her strength was feigned, a charade she would keep up until perhaps she grew strong enough to withstand him for true. Yet, she folded all the same in his presence and found that the voice inside of herself, the one which guided her with some higher form of wisdom, was now muddled with a cacophony of bizarre and unsettling urgings.

'He's stronger than you,' this voice seemed to say, a mocking whisper. 'He will always be stronger than you. Let him consume you. Eventually, he will do it anyway.'

However, some mechanism within her rebelled against that notion, writhing and fighting against the mere suggestion. A losing battle it very well may be, but Sansa owed it to herself and to her father, wherever he may be, to fight anyway.

A light rapping came on the car window, startling Sansa out of the daydream of recollections. Gently, she pushed the car door open and looked up to find Mirabelle standing before her, strands of her hair whipping in the cool breeze.

"We're all checked in. You and I will be sharing a room for the night," Mirabelle informed with a reassuring smile, although her eyes betrayed a bit of sadness. Unbidden, a twinge of resentment cascaded through Sansa. In the bitter aftermath of Mirabelle's infuriating insensitivity, she hardly imagined the woman had any right to sadness in this moment. All throughout the drive, Mirabelle seemed content enough as she shared laughs and stolen kisses with Bronn from across the center console.

Calming herself, Sansa nodded her head sharply and lifted herself from the vehicle in one graceful movement. Through the deeply tinted windows of Bronn's car, she had not seen, or perhaps did not notice, the ominous way in which the light of the setting sun was filtered through thick clouds. The distant horizon was nothing more than inky black silhouettes of horizon set against a sky painted in an unnatural gradient of vermillion and crimson hues. Black clouds and black horizon steadily collapsed in towards one another, extinguishing the fading orange slivers of the sun. The world would be dark soon.

Sansa pulled her bag from the back seat of the car and scanned the parking lot to find it eerily empty, save the other two cars from their convoy. It appeared they were the only souls inhabiting this side of the motel, or even the entire motel itself, for all she knew. Outside of room eleven, the men were gathered, speaking in casual yet nonetheless hushed tones. Even with a cursory glance, Sansa deciphered the tension in the way they composed themselves. Although they were unceremoniously leaned up against either the rusted metal posts, the overhang, or the outside wall of the motel room, the men shared a collective unease that was visible even from where Sansa was.

As she traversed the parking lot towards her and Mirabelle's room, Sansa kept her eyes downcast, resolving herself not to look, not to seek him out with even a brief glance, although she knew he was already staring at her. Somehow his eyes had a way of searing through her, burning through flesh and bone alike, effortlessly slicing through the walls of a stoic facade she was so desperately hiding behind right now. With Sandor Clegane, Sansa felt as though she were made of glass; transparent to his eyes and fragile in his hands. Despite her efforts, some force greater than herself made her lift her eyes momentarily. If it were anyone else, anyone else in the world, her tentative gaze may have gone unnoticed, fleeting as it was. They may have exchanged unnoticed glances, two ships passing in the night. Of course, when she shifted her stare, he was already looking back at her with an intensity that intimated he had been looking at her the entire time; no doubt his eyes had followed her like a hawk from the moment she emerged from the car.

While the men were clearly conversing with him, Sandor looked as if his entire world had fallen away, except for her. One hand lifted, and he took a pull from a cigarette squeezed between his thumb and forefinger. Tilting his head back ever so slightly, Sandor slowly released his breath, and with it, wisps of grey smoke. Still, his eyes remained on her. Always on her. Even when he responded to something Bronn said, the fervor of his focus was on her. She could stop him from speaking to her, avoid his attempts by avoiding him, but Sansa knew she couldn't stop what was happening now; with just one look, she and Sandor communicated more than what could be said with words. At turns feeling bedeviled and blessed by this ability, Sansa knew it would never go away, and so she looked back at him, aware her eyes would speak the language of her heart when her mouth couldn't quite form the words.

A gasp from Mirabelle broke the spell, and Sansa stumbled into the woman, grasping her by the shoulders to steady herself lest she tumble to the ground. Sansa followed Mirabelle's horrified gape to a dead crow lying on the ground beneath their motel room window. At first, she didn't recognize its crumpled form, a black mass of feathers. Apparently a victim of its own negligence, the bird's beak was broken in half, probably the result of a failed attempt to fly through the window. With wings spread amongst broken feathers, its body was writhing with creatures come to devour the remains. Maggots, ants, and flies alike swarmed to the feast. Shuddering, Sansa looked away, but found that Mirabelle was still gawking at the dead bird, quivering ever so slightly and rendered into a peculiar silence. Sansa reached for the motel key clutched in Mirabelle's trembling hand and unlocked the door, lifting her eyes briefly to notice a tarnished, metallic seven staring back at her. As she worked the key into the lock, disregarded words spoken years before invaded her mind.

_'Your moon resides in the seventh house of marriage... Love will come with much difficulty for you, Sansa; much tragedy too.'_

Shaking her head, Sansa willed the thoughts away, although fear had already taken its hold.  _Superstitions. Silly superstitions._

Somehow the portentous divining of her grandmother held renewed meaning, as if the ghosts of loved ones rotting in silent graves were now speaking to her. In life, their words had gotten lost amongst the white noise of her own inner song; her voice, her perceived wisdom leading the chorus and drowning out the others. After their death, Sansa had somehow silenced herself and found the answers were there all along in the voice of others long departed– a prophecy behind the veil of a swan song.

Sucking in a deep breath, Sansa entered their room and was welcomed by the creaking of the door along with the sickening smell of stale cigarette smoke. Reaching a hand out, she felt along the wall until her fingers swept across the light switch, and the room was illuminated in dim light.

The room contained the hallmarks of all cheap motel rooms: worn bed linens that were probably as itchy as they were dated, paper thin walls whose only barriers to sound were the wilting layers of wallpaper, decor that hadn't been updated in decades. The two beds in the room were separated by a wall mounted night stand and a bible sitting next to a plastic phone yellowed by smoke.

As her eyes took in the sight, Sansa let her bag fall to the floor as a sudden and desperate need to be alone took hold of her. Without a word to Mirabelle, Sansa dashed into the bathroom and locked the door behind her. A knob on the wall turned on a heat lamp which colored the room in a blood red glow. With her back pressed against the wall, Sansa found her reflection in the mirror. Sansa's hand moved to the amethyst necklace still hung from her neck, her fingers working the delicate stone.

_And I'm back where I began._

Not so long ago, she had found herself holed up in a cheap motel bathroom, picking pieces of bloodied glass out of her legs and arms. Only then, she had had Podrick to distract her from the fear and uncertainty she felt. They had shared in it together, bonding over their anxiety and terror.

_Connect the dots, Sansa. Connect the damn dots._

Podrick's pleading words filled her head as the heat from the lamp started soaking into her skin. Pulling the thin sweater off of her, Sansa slumped against the wall and let her body slide down the expanse until she was sitting on the floor. The coolness of the fractured tiles beneath her sent shivers down her body as she rested her head against the wall and stared up at the heat lamp.

In the emptiness of her thoughts, she began retracing the events; collecting memories and anchoring them to moments that seemed to change the course of her fate. Connect the dots, she did. Over and over, until a sheen of sweat glazed her body and the bathroom baked against the heat.

_How did I get back here? All the way back where I began…_

And where had she begun? It had started with Sandor's eyes on her from across the room. Silently, he devoured her, hungry with desire; she knew it even then. He seemed to look right through her, to see all the parts that even she herself had yet to fully explore. And you liked it, her thoughts began to taunt her. Indeed, it had stirred something within her, something latent and primal. Something dark, something unnatural.

Chief amongst her memories was the recollection that, perhaps in boredom or naiveté, she had wanted to lose herself, wanted to free fall into darkness. As if that silent wish had been as binding as selling her soul to the devil, Sansa found him. Or rather, he found her, sought her out with his consuming stare. She let him watch her, swallow her whole with ravenous eyes. Only now did she understand that she had wanted to lose herself in  _him_ , fall headlong into the darkness she had sensed in him the moment their eyes met from across the room.

_Stupid girl, you brought this on yourself. He's only doing what you wanted…_

Furious at him and at herself, Sansa curled her fingers into fists. How could she have been so pathetically ignorant? He was right. She didn't have to let him into her heart. She could have shut him out and kept him away. Instead, Sansa blindly took the plunge into his world, tumbling down the rabbit hole to this nightmare where monsters truly existed in flesh and blood form. Angry tears stung her eyes and slowly evaporated against the heat as they rolled down her cheeks. Whatever traces of sympathy she felt for herself were extinguished and replaced with the tremendous burden of thought that she may have manifested her desires to create the hellish version of  _Alice in Wonderland._

Still, her entire being– body, mind, and soul– rejected the notion that the onus was exclusively hers and hers alone. Perhaps she had been naïve, and perhaps her curiosity had led her down a path she shouldn't have dared travel. However, he seemed to have puzzled out her naiveté quick enough, feeding on it like some rabid beast. She had been left to wonder why he had chosen her. Of all the souls present at Nestor Royce's party, he had come back for  _her_. He could have left her, bloody and burning, like all the rest.

With some sort of heat-induced awakening, the missing piece suddenly fell into place, the final line drawn so that now the picture was clear. From across the room at the Royce mansion, Sandor Clegane had zeroed in on her, like predator to prey, and had decided that night that she was his. His to own, his to possess, his to keep. The events that unfolded worked serendipitously with his desires for her. Under the guise of protection, he had stolen her away with no intentions of setting her free.

Connected cords of memories now complete, the image was of a little bird. Wings clipped, she had been cornered, caged, and kept. Little bird, indeed.

As her skin began to burn now against the heat, Sansa felt her mouth filling with saliva and her stomach turning on itself. On hands and knees, she shuffled to the toilet and lifted the seat as she heaved out the limited contents of her stomach. Out of breath, she stood up on wobbly limbs and rinsed her mouth out before darting out of the bathroom.

Dumbfounded, Mirabelle sat on the bed and watched as Sansa made for the motel room door. With her head spinning and body reeling, she stumbled into the chill of twilight, hardly paying any mind to the decaying crow beneath the window. Bewildered and fighting for every breath, Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and wiped the sweat from her brow. Opening her eyes, the world was dark, as she knew it would be. The meager light emanating from the outdoor lamp posts seemed all but swallowed up by the night, and what dull light they did manage offered little comfort to her.

From around the corner of motel room number seven, Sansa could hear the mumbling of a man's voice. With soft steps, she inched closer to the sound and noticed by the tell-tale accent it was Vinny. By some instinct, Sansa willed her movements to be silent and fluid _. Move like a cat in the shadows_ , she told herself. One foot over the other, Sansa eased along the wall towards the corner of the building until she could hear the man's voice clearly.

"We're just here for the night," Vinny spoke with a heavy urgency, his tone biting.

When no reply came, Sansa knew he was engaged in a telephone conversation. Rolling her eyes, she imagined it was his goomah. Perhaps he had plans to rendezvous with the woman this evening, and those plans were dashed by their stop for the night.

"On the move in the morning," Vinny continued, something in his voice now alerting Sansa that this wasn't a conversation being shared between the man and his mistress. "Louisa is in Vegas visiting her sister. Mirabelle, Thomas, and I will leave early tomorrow morning to meet her in Vegas for lunch."

With an astute awareness, Sansa realized this was a business call, more than like, and a conversation she was not meant to hear. Whether out of fear or curiosity, she did not know, but Sansa found her limbs were frozen in place, her only movements the rapid rising and falling of her chest.

"He'll have the girl with him, I'm sure. Although, she wasn't having it today."

Suddenly, Sansa's eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. Stiffening, she felt as if she had been hit with a jolt of electricity.  _Me. He's talking about me. He has to be._

"No, I think he'll force his hand tomorrow. He wasn't too happy to have her out of his sight today."

A long pause came before Sansa heard Vinny raise his voice into the phone, agitation threatening to unveil any secrecy he had hoped to maintain.

"I'm telling you!" Lowering his voice, the man continued again with a fair bit of impatience lingering in his words. "They'll be alone together tomorrow."

While she didn't understand who he was talking to or what she had to do with any of it, Sansa felt her stomach twist into a nervous knot, and her legs began moving her back along the wall, instinctively forcing her retreat. When her foot caught against a shallow hole in the concrete, Sansa stumbled forward and threw her arms out to catch herself.

"Listen, I've gotta go," she heard Vinny mumble into his phone before the sound of his quickened footsteps neared the corner of the building.

Mouthing silent expletives, Sansa turned and began moving steadily towards her motel room door, trying desperately to traverse the distance as quickly and quietly as possible.

"Red!" she heard Vinny call out behind her, the firmness in his tone making her stop short of the motel room door. "What are you doing?"

Steeling herself before she turned around, Sansa relaxed her jaw and softened her eyes in an effort to erase the look of terror that was undoubtedly plastered across her face. With a deep breath and faint smile, she turned around and feigned a bit of surprise.

"I just needed some fresh air, so I came out here. What are you up to?" The words, slathered with as much nonchalance as she could muster, quivered from her lips. Still, she kept his eyes and smiled softly, maintaining an air of innocent inquisitiveness.

The man took slow steps towards her, and his eyes narrowed as they roamed up and down Sansa's form. Swallowing hard, she wanted to bolt, to lock herself in the room and tell Mirabelle what she had overheard. A million and one thoughts buzzed throughout her mind, every possible scenario playing out all at once until her heart raced and her palms began to sweat.

"The smell of cigarettes and sex too much for you?" Vinny mocked, half playful and half threatening. It was then Sansa realized she had somehow entangled herself in a dangerous game with this man. For as jovial and carefree as he seemed to be just last night, Vinny's entire disposition had changed on a dime. Maliciousness gleamed in his eyes as he moved ever closer towards her.

"How long were you standing there, listening to my call?" the man urged, his voice quiet and steady, but menacing, nonetheless.

"I wasn't!" Sansa exclaimed before fighting to calm herself and maintain a facade of ignorance. "I didn't even know you were on the phone."

Although she somehow managed her words without stammering, the lie sounded terrible as it came from her lips on a thin exhale of breath. Sansa let her eyes fall away as Vinny coldly scrutinized her. Leaning towards her, the man towered over Sansa. Not quite as tall as Sandor, he was still imposing as he pointed a finger in her face with one hand and held her firmly by the forearm with the other.

"Don't lie to me," he warned as Sansa complied with his silent urging for her to look at him. When she lifted her stare, Vinny's blood shot eyes were wide, nearly bulging out of his head as he spoke through gritted teeth. "What did you hear?"

A momentary compulsion to tell him the truth surged through her, and Sansa bit her lip to keep to the confessions from pouring out. She had been brought up to believe that the truth, although hard to hear and hard to tell at times, was the only way to truly unburden oneself from a difficult situation. In fact, she could almost hear her father's stern voice beseeching her to calmly relay what she had overheard and to explain she had not meant to eavesdrop on the conversation. As the seconds rolled by, Sansa knew she had to come up with something or else face whatever wrath was stirring within Vinny.

"I didn't. I didn't hear anything," Sansa finally replied as she forced her eyes to meet his.

Vinny seemed to stiffen at that, his brow furrowing in contemplation as he cocked his head to the side. When a slight smile graced his lips, Sansa thought he may have believed her. However with her eyes still glued to his as a show of strength, Sansa could see the hostility still teeming within his glare.

Leaning forward, Vinny let his mouth hover next to Sansa's ear as he lowered his voice to something between a whisper and a growl.

"You're a good girl, aren't you? Did Mirabelle tell you what good girls do? They keep their noses out of our business and their pretty little mouths shut. I like you, Red, I do. I don't want to have to hurt you. I think you understand."

Releasing his grip on her arm, Vinny pulled away and settled his eyes down at Sansa, clearly gauging her reaction. Sweat was beginning to bead on his bald forehead, and his breaths came ragged from his mouth, which was twisted in a cruel scowl. The fear she gave him was real, and yet it was her own anger at his words which surprised her. She could feel her cheeks burning hot at the thought of him talking to her that way. Instinctively, her thoughts turned to Sandor and how furious he would be if he knew Vinny was speaking to her like this.

"And this thing with Sandor," Vinny began again, somehow reading her thoughts and correcting them with a bitterness she didn't quite know how to place in him. "This is the life, darling. He'll take good care of you, give you everything you could ever want, things you probably don't even know you want. All you have to do is be a stand-up girl. Do you know what that means? It means you don't run. You stay with him, and you suck it up. It means that if anyone ever asks you what business he's into, you lie for him. It means if he wants another girl on the side, you don't get all worked up over it and threaten to walk out the door. If he gets put away, it means you stay loyal to him. That's what the stand-up girls do. I think you can be a stand-up girl, I really do, but you better learn real quick, Red, how things are gonna be."

As the man finished his diatribe on a seething hiss, the muscles in Sansa's legs twitched as she entertained the notion of running. Perhaps she could dart towards the blackened horizon, now obscured by the shadows of nightfall. However, a sinking feeling took hold as she realized she had nowhere to run and no one to run to. Sandor would find her. He would always find her– that had been made quite clear. Instead, Sansa sucked in a deep breath, and without another word, she turned towards the door to room number seven and quietly ducked inside, Vinny studying her with watchful eyes the entire time.

Once inside, Sansa locked the door and fastened the door chain in place. With her forehead pressed up against the metal door, Sansa remained where she was until she heard the rhythmic pounding of Vinny's retreating footsteps. His words echoed in the void of her mind, thrumming a chord within her and stirring troubling thoughts with a reverberating heaviness.

Although spoken in different words, the subtext of what Sandor and Vinny had both hissed into her ear was much the same. Not only would she not be going home, she was expected to cooperate as if she herself had chosen this particular diversion of her life. Much like Mirabelle, Sansa was expected to make as little waves as possible, to turn a blind eye to all that went on, to smile through tears, and laugh despite a broken heart. Vinny was merely echoing Sandor's opinion in all of this, repeating words Sandor himself might speak in this moment.

"Who was that?" Mirabelle spoke on a languished sigh.

Startled, Sansa jumped from the door as a chill swept through her body. She had almost forgotten Mirabelle was there. The energy that Mirabelle typically filled a room with was diminished as the woman sat in a musty arm chair situated in the corner, a cigarette dangling between her fingers. Sansa had never seen either Mirabelle or Sandor smoke before. Apparently, the evening was rife with reasons to light up and take an edge off the steady pressure of stress.

"Vinny," Sansa replied quietly as she took in the sight of Mirabelle, understanding immediately why the room had somehow filled with a dreadful sort of despair and now knowing the sadness she had seen in her earlier. With one leg pulled to her chest and the other tucked underneath her, Mirabelle was massaging circles about her forehead with the heel of her hand as her elbow rested on her knee. Somehow, the sight struck Sansa as strange; the woman, normally so vivacious, seemed a subdued version of herself. Her skin was paler than usual, and her body seemed to fidget restlessly as she shrunk away in the chair.

"I was hoping it was Sandor," Mirabelle quietly informed with a fair bit of regret lingering in her voice.

Sansa couldn't help the irritated snort that escaped her lips as she shook her head and defensively crossed her arms about her chest. Lifting her gaze to Sansa, Mirabelle leaned forward and ashed her cigarette into a paper cup resting at her feet.

"I know  _you_ don't want to talk to him, but I do." The woman paused for a moment as she settled back in the chair and lifted a distraught stare to the water-stained ceiling. "I don't think we should have stopped for the night. We should have driven straight through."

By the softened tone of Mirabelle's voice, scarcely above a whisper and muffled as she continued to stare at the ceiling, Sansa knew not whether Mirabelle had meant to say those words out loud, to let the worried confession exit her lips with an exhale of cigarette smoke.

"Do you ever feel things?" Mirabelle quietly inquired as her eyes finally retreated from the ceiling and found Sansa with her back pressed against the opposite wall, arms still wrapped around her middle.

The question was left wide open for interpretation, and yet by the way the room seemed to darken, Sansa understood well enough what Mirabelle was getting at. There was something portentous lingering heavy in the air, growing thicker as the night grew darker. However, trust, fickle as it was, had waned away, and now when Sansa spoke to Mirabelle, she found herself guarded. Her words were deliberately spoken and carefully chosen in a way they hadn't been before. Gone were the days of freely speaking with Mirabelle about all the worries and fears that ran wild about her mind, hoping that the woman's experience and advice would help rein them in.

"What do you mean?" Sansa replied flatly, straightening her spine to stand upright to her full height.

"Do you ever feel like something is coming?" Mirabelle responded, almost pleading as she shifted to the edge of her seat. Her eyes searched Sansa's face with a pained fervor, desperately seeking confirmation.

"I don't understand what you're getting at," Sansa lied, not entirely sure why. There was something weak about Mirabelle in this moment, as if the woman had been unraveling beneath her mask of strength, and only now did she feel comfortable enough to vocalize her worries.

Flicking a frightened glance towards the motel room door and all that lay beyond it, Mirabelle began to tremble, even Sansa could see. Ash fell from her cigarette in tiny flakes as her hands quivered, and the woman looked about the room with suspicious eyes.

"I feel like something is following me. I can feel it  _on_ me, like I can't shake it or get rid of it no matter what I do." Rubbing her hands against her face and shaking her head, Mirabelle continued, the words coming like a waterfall of worry and desperation as she jumped from the chair and began to pace. "God, I have these fucking dreams. They're so real, Sansa. I told Bronn, and he just thinks I'm nervous, you know, with everything that's been happening lately. Am I crazy? I've never felt like this before. Ever. I don't...I don't even know. I'm scared to talk about it. Scared to think about what it means."

Settling a bit, Mirabelle sucked in a deep breath and lowered herself back in the chair. Sansa studied the woman and anticipated her sympathy for Mirabelle to come. For many moments she waited for the words, gentle and soothing, to come to her. They never came. Instead, Sansa was met with a wave of bitterness towards the woman. She had no sympathy, no reassurance to offer Mirabelle.

"It's hard, isn't it?" Sansa pondered as she stared blankly at Mirabelle, the acidity in her voice entirely unbidden but present all the same.

"What?" Mirabelle exhaled disbelievingly as her eyes grew wide and glinted with the promise of tears.

"It's hard to be scared, to not know what exactly is coming for you," Sansa continued, undaunted by the pained confusion painted across Mirabelle's face. "It's hard to feel that way, and on top of it, to feel as though you have no one to talk to. That when you do talk to someone about your fears, they will shrug their shoulders and tell you to suck it up because this is just how things are going to be."

Sansa did not let her gaze fall away from Mirabelle, and instead her eyes remained fixed on the woman until it was Mirabelle who had to look away. Finally, a sudden sense of understanding bloomed across Mirabelle's face, and she addressed Sansa with bewilderment.

"Is this about our conversation yesterday?" The woman's voice quivered, sounding more like a child than a woman. Relenting a bit, Sansa pushed herself from the wall and took slow steps towards Mirabelle until she was standing in front of the woman.

"You're the one who told me there is beauty to be found in darkness," Sansa remarked as she continued to fix her eyes down towards Mirabelle. "Is this dark enough for you, Mirabelle? Is this the sort of  _beauty_  you want to surround yourself with? Yes, I feel it too."

Finally confirming Mirabelle's fears, Sansa turned away and settled herself on the edge of the bed.

"I guess I deserve that," Mirabelle admitted as she pressed her fingertips to the corners of her eyes to blot away the emerging tears. "I'm sorry. I should have been more sympathetic to you yesterday."

Softening, Sansa nodded her head and released the tension she had been holding in her body. A bit of remorse fractured through the bitterness she had maintained until now. It wasn't like her to be vindictive, although she stood firm in her reaction to Mirabelle's confessed fears. A dose of her own medicine might do Mirabelle some good, whether she wanted it or not.

"I forgive you," Sansa responded gently, finding truth in her own words despite the lingering sense of mistrust that could not be squashed with a mere exchange of words.

"I appreciate it," Mirabelle murmured as she smiled, warm and genuine. "Do you want to talk about what happened last night?"

Despite the caution and kindness in Mirabelle's voice, Sansa immediately stiffened at the question, pondering if indeed she wanted to talk about it. As the memories began to creep back into the forefront of her mind, Sansa shook her head firmly as she met Mirabelle's eyes.

"No," she abruptly answered, harsher than intended. "No, I don't," Sansa added a bit calmer and now accompanied with a polite smile. If she never talked about it again, it would be too soon. Instead, she wanted to bury the events away in some mausoleum of her heart, never to be resurrected again and rendered forgotten with time.

Respecting her wishes, Mirabelle pushed no further, but instead put out what little remained of her cigarette and hopped onto the bed next to Sansa.

"Can we just, I don't know, do something to get our minds off of all this?" Mirabelle breathlessly inquired, her eyes still dull despite the smile breaking across her lips. "We could just watch a movie, forget the boys and have a girl's night in. What do you say?"

Feeling her own mouth curl into a smile as a delicate giggle escaped her lips, Sansa nodded her head, relenting as Mirabelle threw her arms around her and pulled Sansa into an embrace.

For the remainder of the evening, Sansa and Mirabelle said little to one another, but instead focused their uneasy minds on the small tube TV in the motel room. A marathon of cheesy 80's romantic comedies occupied their interest; one after the other, the storylines formulaic, but successful enough at dissipating the uncanny and oppressive sense of foreboding that had encapsulated them.

Sansa couldn't escape the feeling that she was somehow comforting Mirabelle, although that fact was never quite explicitly spoken. Instead, Mirabelle curled up next to her and eventually fell asleep somewhere in the middle of  _An Officer and a Gentleman._ When Sansa's own eyes relented to her exhaustion, she quietly crept into the other bed and fell into a dreamless sleep, dark and still.

When she awoke in the morning and turned towards the other bed, Mirabelle was gone, having left before sunrise with Vinny and Thomas. The woman told her as much last night, even though Sansa already knew after having overheard Vinny's conversation. She kept that information to herself and feigned surprise as Mirabelle told her of the lunch plans with Vinny's wife, Louisa.

Much like yesterday morning, Sansa forced herself from the bed, finding the release from the blanket's embrace came easier today than it did yesterday. With a sliver of soap and the motel's cheap, generic-brand shampoo, Sansa showered and readied herself for the day. After slipping into a pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, she let her hair air-dry into untamed waves and didn't bother with applying make-up. Slumping into the stained armchair, Sansa waited in silence. Eventually, a rapping came at the door, two quick knocks which beckoned her heart to begin beating hard within her chest.

With soft steps, Sansa slowly opened the door and lifted her eyes to find Sandor standing before her, his head down as he donned a pair of black aviator sunglasses. With his eyes unreadable, Sansa looked away as she retreated back into the room to grab her stuff. Leaning against the doorframe, not entering unless she invited him in, Sandor watched her as she threw her bag over her shoulder and snatched up the door key. As she walked back towards him, Sansa let her eyes roam to the floor, unable to look at him and speaking not a word to him. Shouldering past him, Sansa locked the door, shoved the key into his hand, and made her way out to the parking lot where Zulu and Bronn were waiting.

"Good morning, Miss Sansa," Zulu greeted politely as she approached, a forlorn yet shy smile gracing his lips. Surprised and caught off guard that he had even addressed her, Sansa returned the smile and bid her good mornings to both him and Bronn.

As the two men wordlessly climbed into Bronn's car, Sansa knew Sandor was making his way across the parking lot, although her back was turned to the direction from which he was coming. Silent and stiff, Sansa made no moves towards his car, and instead stood in the empty parking space that separated Sandor's vehicle from Bronn's.

She could feel Sandor's heavy presence as he came up behind her; the sound as his breath hitched in his chest, as if he might say something, his scent of soap mingling with the musky smell of his cologne, and his fingers softly, and no doubt purposely, grazing the skin of her arm as he took her bag from her.

Walking around her, Sandor opened the passenger side door of his car and fixed his stare at her as he waited for her to make a move.

"You'll be with me," he finally spoke, the sound of his voice akin to a deep moan. They were the first words he had spoken to her since their fallout, and although she was sure he was referring to her riding with him, Sansa could not ignore the irony of those words.

With her eyes lowering to the ground in front of her, Sansa felt her bottom lip tremble and her eyes well up with tears. She hadn't anticipated the difficulty she felt in this moment, the way in which she hated everything he had done to her, yet still found her heart aching at the loss of what she had established with him.  _What do you do when the only person who can put you together again is the one who broke you in the first place?_

At that thought, the tears came streaming down her cheeks, and Sansa scrambled to wipe them away before he noticed. It was futile, she knew, for he was always looking at her, always watching. Dropping her bag to the ground, Sandor was in front of her in a few quickened paces and pulling her into his arms.

"Sansa," he breathed into her hair as he pressed his cheek against the top of her head, rocking her back and forth in his arms. With one hand splayed against the small of her back, the other brushed against her cheek to swipe at the tears. His desire to have her in his arms was clear as day, although he didn't speak another word. There was a desperation in the way he held her, a hunger which beckoned him to press her against his body, as if she wasn't close enough to him already.

_Let him consume you._ Unbidden, the voice came tumbling from the recesses of her mind and urged her to melt into his embrace, to smooth over the wounds of her heart and forget it had all happened. How easy it would be just to let it go, to assume it had been a one-time slip up on his part, and now that the storm of his wrath had passed, they could work it all out.

That thought passed quickly enough, and all Sansa had to do was remember the impossible choice he had given her and then the hateful and obsessive way in which he ripped it from her hands. With as much force as she could muster, Sansa pushed against him, her cheeks burning hot as a renewed surge of anger swept through her.

"Don't," she shouted, her chest heaving as she glared at him through narrowed eyes. "Don't," she repeated on a whisper before climbing into the car and slamming the door shut behind her.

Although his sunglasses obscured her view of his eyes and she wasn't really looking at him anyway, Sansa knew she had wounded him and found she didn't quite care. He had wounded her too, and arguably, far worse.

Rotating in her seat, Sansa turned as far away from the driver's seat as possible; her body pressed against the passenger side door, arms crossed tightly about her chest, and her eyes remaining intently out the window.

The first few hours of the drive passed this way; silence engulfed between them as Sansa remained tucked against the door, head leaning up against the window. The radio was turned down low and rendered white noise in the background, as if Sandor was inviting her to speak and fearful he might not hear her if the radio was any louder than a mere murmur through the speakers.

Sansa found she had nothing to say to him, even if she wanted to speak. She could feel his exasperation growing with each passing mile, the silence clearly unbearable for him as he shifted nervously in his seat. When it had become too much, Sansa saw him reach across the center console and felt as he placed his hand on the top of her thigh, softly caressing his fingers there in a gesture of gentleness.

Uncrossing her legs, Sansa wiggled herself away from his touch the best she could as she shot him an offended glare. With an audible and irritated sigh, Sandor pulled his hand away as he pulled the sunglasses from his face and tossed them on top of the dash board.

"Little bird, I just want to talk to you," he pleaded as his eyes shifted to her, heavy with want. "Please just hear me out."

Back and forth his eyes alternated between Sansa and the road, keeping his gaze on her for as long as possible before inevitably looking back to the empty highway ahead of them.

"Don't you think you've said enough already?" Sansa shot back, her pulse quickening as the heat slowly crept through her cheeks once more.

There was nothing this man could say to her that would erase all the damage he had done. Sansa knew that, and apparently, so did he. She saw the regret gleaming fierce in his eyes; the pained expression in the way he looked at her felt like a knife straight to her belly, although she knew there was little room in her heart to feel sorry for him.

As she allowed herself the opportunity to stare back at him, Sansa found that he looked human to her, full of mortal flaws. Sandor told her once that he was a God of his own Underworld, and she venerated him as such. And like any other God, she had both feared him and loved him in turn. Now he had fallen from grace, and Sansa found herself wanting him to be more, wanted him to be better than this.

He said nothing else, although she knew his mind was running wild with desperate thoughts. Sansa watched as his eyes focused in on the rear-view mirror, catching sight of something which seemed to distract him, at least momentarily. As the minutes began to pass with resuscitated silence, Sandor's eyes drifted towards the rear-view mirror several more times, and his body seemed to tense with each successive glance. Something about it unsettled Sansa, his reaction purely instinctual and the fear in him seeming to rise.

"Oh fuck," he muttered out on an exhaled breath as his eyes steadied once more to the reflection of the road behind them.

Rotating her gaze over her shoulder, Sansa could see Bronn's car behind them pulled over on the side of the two-lane highway, red and blue lights flashing as an officer warily made his way out of his vehicle.

With her brow furrowing, Sansa turned to look at Sandor, gauging his reaction and not quite understanding how to place it. Both Sandor and Bronn had been speeding down the desolate highway with the reasonable assumption that this stretch of road wasn't likely to be policed for speeders.

His hands gripped the steering wheel hard as Sandor continued mouthing expletives while letting his eyes dodge between the rear-view and side mirrors, his focus intent on a blue car which was steadily gaining on them.

With his foot pressed to the gas, Sansa watched as their speed steadily increased, and yet the blue car kept with them, getting ever closer despite their now frantic rate of speed.

It all happened so fast, yet somehow seemed to play out in slow motion, a strange dichotomy of time. As the blue car began to pull up next to them, matching their speed, Sandor pulled Sansa's head down in his lap, cradling her in one arm as the other fought to maintain control of the car.

With the center console digging painfully into her side, it seemed like an eternity before she heard the popping sounds, now familiar to her ears. The car seemed to jerk, the force of which slammed her against the steering wheel despite Sandor desperately clinging onto her and fighting against the momentum propelling them forward. The loud squealing of tires was dampened by the sound of the blue car colliding into them with a thunderous crash. A sharp pull to the right, and it felt as if they were now floating; the pressure against the steering wheel seemed to ease up before Sandor's arm loosened on her, and Sansa was jerked back towards the passenger side door, the one which she had not so long ago leaned against for comfort. She was now slamming into it, the side of her face smashed against the glass which splintered under the force. The deafening sound of breaking glass, crunching fiberglass, and her own pained scream was the last thing Sansa heard before the world went black.

* * *

The blue car trailing behind them could have been innocuous, just a fellow traveler down the highway which spanned the lonely expanse between Carson City and Vegas. Sandor had been watching it for quite some time and seemed to recognize that particular make and model from yesterday's travels. He had first spotted the dark blue sedan outside of Redding, although it had kept a comfortable distance then. The car only reemerged in his rear-view mirror as they passed through Carson City, hiding inconspicuously amongst the clusters of traffic. Sandor had dismissed his suspicions as paranoia when the car continued past the exit they had taken to the Starlite Motel.

With Bronn held up by a police officer (a diversion, more than like), Sandor spotted the blue car once more and immediately understood that this was hardly a coincidence. With the expertise of a hired hit, the passenger-side window of the blue car had rolled down, and bullets were fired with precision at the tires of his car, popping them upon impact and sending the car skidding towards the side of the road.

He struggled to maintain control of the vehicle and probably could have been successful if it wasn't for the blue sedan slamming into the side of his Mustang, which went careening off the road and down a drop-off. Sandor saw it all unfolding in slow motion and knew that, despite letting off the acceleration, they were traveling too fast to assuage or prevent the eventual impact at the bottom of the steep hill.

In the end, it was scarcely a twelve foot drop of sloping terrain, yet it might as well have been twice as high. The car had flipped and landed bottom-up on the unrelenting ground below. Dazed, Sandor dangled upside down from his seat, the blood rushing to his head and eliciting a steady pressure to throb through his temples. As his senses returned to him with sobering shock, he whipped his head towards the passenger seat to find Sansa in much the same position as him, except her side of the vehicle had taken the brunt of the final impact. Whereas he dangled from his seat, Sansa's body was folded nearly in half, her head turned away from him, but by the way she didn't move or make any sort of sound, he now feared for the worst.

In a panic, Sandor fumbled for the button on his seat belt, his body moving much slower than he wanted it to and his fingers uncoordinated as he struggled to release himself. With one arm pressed against the top of the car for leverage, Sandor unburdened himself of his seat belt and groaned as his body maneuvered within the small amount of space. His window had been busted open, yet the edges were lined with jagged remains of glass. Turning his body the best he could, Sandor kicked out the glass and carefully crawled from the wreckage.

His legs felt numb as he used his arms to pull himself around the side of the car which was, without a doubt, totaled from the collision. A sudden fear struck him that he had somehow lost use of his lower limbs, that if he needed to get Sansa and run (and he knew with a certainty he would), that he wouldn't be able to do it. Rotating his feet at the ankles and bending his knees towards his chest before straightening them again, Sandor worked to get blood flowing back through his legs. Eventually, the numbness retreated, and Sandor pushed himself to his feet, sucking in a sharp breath as a jolt of pain shot through his left arm. In stumbling steps, Sandor circled around to Sansa's side of the car. Her window was also broken, the glass strewn about like bloodied pebbles. From the hairline on her forehead, she was bleeding, and by the way her body was crumpled in her seat, he could not tell if she was breathing.

Scrambling to her side, Sandor brushed the hair out of her face and took each of her cheeks in his hands as his mind raced with a flurry of thoughts, each one more frantic than the next.

"Sansa!" he shouted as his arm worked across her lap towards the seatbelt release. "Talk to me. Please. Sansa!" His pleas went unanswered as her eyes remained closed, and her breaths, if present, came hauntingly shallow. Sandor felt a horrifying shock of dread grip him, his own breaths siphoned from his lips as he struggled to get her out of the car with hands shaking so badly, they could barely manage the task he had given them.

"Leave her," a man's voice demanded somewhere behind him as something hard and round was being pressed to the back of his head. In his lifetime, Sandor had had a gun put to his head more times than he cared to count, and as if moving of its own accord, his body automatically went through the motions; his form went still, all except his arms, which slowly raised in the air as he eased back on his knees, remaining as calm as possible.

"Tell me what you want," Sandor responded; his voice, although low and monotone, struggled to disguise the panic coursing through him. He fought with the urge to turn around, to see who this man was and if he could possibly talk his way out of this.

"Get up! Slowly. Keep walking until I tell you to stop!"

Filing through the memories of all the men he had been acquainted with over the years, Sandor could not place this man's voice; it was unfamiliar to him as the man shouted out his commands. With hardly anything he could do but comply, Sandor slowly rose to his feet, watching Sansa and waiting for any sign of life to stir within her unconscious form. When the man shoved the gun between his shoulder blades with force, Sandor reluctantly tore his eyes away from her and began to collect what information he could about the faceless person behind him, the one who had instigated all of this.

The man was shorter than him; he could tell by the way the gun was no longer pointed at his head. If the man was shorter, he was undoubtedly smaller too, and if he was smaller, Sandor stood a chance at overpowering him. However, that was assuming the man was alone, and Sandor knew he wasn't. There were at least three men: the driver of the blue car and two gunmen in the front and back passenger-side seats.

Taking slow, short strides, Sandor began walking away from the car. After perhaps twenty half-paces, the man barked out more commands.

"Stop! Get on your knees and keep your hands up."

Although he complied once more, Sandor felt a small rush of relief ripple through him. The man was shouting.  _Weak men shout because they want to be heard. A man who is in power doesn't need to shout. He knows he's in control._

Lowering himself to his knees, Sandor waited for what was to come next. There was naught he could do now but listen and wait. When his ears were met with the sound of the man's feet softly crunching against the dried desert ground, Sandor knew the man was shifting his weight from side to side, impatience undoubtedly growing. Sandor wasn't the only one waiting for something. This man was waiting too– for what, he did not know. Another pair of footsteps shuffled somewhere behind him, a second man meandering about. With his gaze facing forward, staring off towards the russet and copper colored earth in front of him, Sandor could only hear what was happening. Stilling his breaths the best he could, he listened to the sounds once more and tried to piece together the picture in his mind.

The crunching of glass was set distinctly against the sound of someone nearing the car some twenty or so feet behind him. Stifled groans of the second man filled Sandor's ears, sounding as if he were struggling with something– or someone.

"Hurry the fuck up!"

The man behind him was growing increasingly irritated, that fact glaringly obvious, if not by the frustration lacing his words, then by the gun pressing harder against the back of Sandor's skull. These men were inexperienced with what they were doing, Sandor knew, and while that could work in his favor, it also made them more dangerous. These men were apt to make mistakes– mistakes which could cost them their lives, or perhaps force them to botch the contract. Sandor knew men like this; he had worked hard to weed these sorts of men out of his organization. Men like this were irrational, sloppy, and in frustration, anger, or fear, they would often kill their targets needlessly if it became obvious the hit was botched, regardless of whether the targets had been ordered kept alive. One thing was clear, though: the man behind Sandor had put all of his power into his weapon. If Sandor could get it away from him, the man would fold, powerless without a gun in his hand– yet another hallmark of an inexperienced headhunter.

Remaining as still as possible, Sandor's left arm was beginning to throb painfully as he continued to hold his arms up in the air. As the sound of the other man's footsteps began to draw near, the man behind him eased up with his gun, pulling it slightly away from the back of Sandor's head. With his focus unfaltering, Sandor took a mental note of each and every one of this man's movements. Nothing was insignificant. The man was easily distracted, forgetting himself as he let the gun hover somewhere behind Sandor's head.

"Is the bitch dead?" the man behind him screeched out, beckoning Sandor's hands, although raised in the air, to curl into fists.  _God help the bastards if anything happened to her_ , Sandor thought furiously to himself. They could empty their .38's into his head, he wouldn't rightly care, but they could be damned sure he'd be dragging them to hell with him if Sansa didn't survive this ordeal.

"How the fuck am I supposed to know?" the other man responded with agitation flaring in his voice. "I ain't no fucking doctor!"

With that, the other man heedlessly dropped Sansa's unconscious body to the ground next to Sandor. Laying on her stomach and with her head facing him, Sandor scrambled towards her on hands and knees. The blood was beginning to dry against her forehead and cheek, and with a frantic and cursory glance over her, Sandor found no other apparent injuries, although that hardly calmed the panic rushing through him.

Before he could reach her, a hard kick cracked against his ribs, bringing Sandor to fall face down against the earth as he groaned out a labored breath through the pain.

Settling between him and Sansa, the man with the gun lowered himself to the ground in front of Sandor's face, the end of the silenced gun now resting in the middle of his forehead.

"You do that again, and you'll watch her die," the man intoned coldly. Seeing this man for the first time, Sandor glared at him with rage brewing behind his eyes.

As he suspected, the man was small and unfamiliar to him. With lanky limbs and a scrappy frame, the man scowled back at him with a gaunt face, pock-marked by god-knows-what and crooked teeth peering out through thin, cracked lips. With the help of the other man, both Sansa and Sandor were bound with their hands behind their backs.

"You want to kill me? Then fucking kill me and be done with it," Sandor seethed through clenched teeth, looking up to stare at the man dead in the eyes. "She has nothing to do with any of this. Not a goddamned thing! Let her go, and you can do whatever you want with me. You want to be the man who brings down the Hound? You can do that, but let her go."

The man held Sandor's stare, his dull green eyes crinkling at the corners as his lips pulled into a ghastly smile. With a cackle of laughter, the man shook his head.

"No, you see, she's part of this too," the man informed darkly as he shifted his eyes momentarily to Sansa's unmoving form lying next to him. "You and her both. It's all or nothing."

With that, the man settled his hands on his hips as he slowly paced back and forth in the space between Sandor and Sansa, purposely kicking up plumes of dirt with each pass.

Still on his stomach, Sandor steadied his eyes on Sansa and discerned the subtle rise and fall of her back. Awash with relief, Sandor fought the urge to work his way next to her, to press his body against hers so that when she opened her eyes, he would be there. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was, how he never meant for any of this to happen, that despite the short amount of time they had been in each other's lives, she had come to mean so much to him. Yet, a part of him wanted her to remain unconscious. If this was truly their end, he would rather it happen while she was miles away, adrift on sweet dreams and blissfully unaware of the terror unfolding around them.

Sandor's silent wish went unanswered as he heard a soft whimper escape her lips and watched as her brow folded with a pained expression. Blinking away the bleariness, Sansa's eyes seemed to slowly register their surroundings. Her gaze eventually landed on him, and a ragged breath escaped her lips, rustling the strands of hair that rested beneath her cheek.

"Sandor," she breathed as her eyes grew wide with fear, her voice a quiet moan.

"She wakes," the man above them mocked as he crouched down on the other side of Sansa, slowly turning her to her back, but not before her eyes caught Sandor in a pleading stare. He hadn't seen the other man looming beside him, and even if he had, it didn't matter. Sandor worked his way closer to Sansa, taking another swift kick to the ribs in the process.

* The man with the gun, the one who was now caressing Sansa's bloodied cheek with the back of his hand, chuckled darkly as he shook his head with a tsk'ing sound.

* "You're dense, Clegane. Real fucking dense, but you sure do know how to pick 'em." Horrified and burning with unbridled rage, Sandor watched as the man ran the palm of his hand down Sansa's neck and to the swell of her breast. With her eyes squeezed shut, Sansa's lips trembled as she cried out Sandor's name.

* Despite the other man pressing a gun to his head, Sandor moved closer to her as his glowering stare snapped up to meet the man fondling her.

* "You mother fucker, I'm going to kill you. I swear to God I'm going to rip you limb from limb," Sandor raged, his voice bellowing from his chest as a low growl rustling against the dust of the desert.

* With a piercing glare, Sandor held the man's eyes, blood boiling with the need to slaughter these men; not to just kill them, but to make them hurt, to make them beg for their pathetic fucking lives.

* The man looked away, sliding his hand beneath Sansa's shirt before a call came out from somewhere on the road up above.

Lifting his eyes, Sandor could see a man running down the hill with sideways steps, arms out to balance himself lest he go tumbling to the ground below. The man next to Sansa jumped abruptly to his feet, calling out as the third man approached.

"What the fuck is going on?" he raged, waving his arms in frustration. Sandor shifted his eyes to the man looming above him, watching as he, too, became distracted.

As the third man approached, breathless and panting, he pointed to the road above.

"They're coming! The other car with the underboss. They…they fucking shot him, right between the eyes."

Rubbing his hands over his face as he screamed out expletives, the man who fancied himself in charge of this whole deal turned towards the man still standing over Sandor.

"Go up there with him and take care of it! It wasn't supposed to be this  _fucking_ hard!" The man pointed towards the road above, his face contorted with anger and turning a bright shade of red as his chest began to heave with frantic breaths. In an instant, the two men were working their way towards the hill with hurried steps, but not before Sandor saw the fear that began to fracture their hardened countenances.

With her eyes still squeezed shut, Sansa was whimpering next to him, each of her soft cries feeling like a punch to his gut. In slow movements, he pressed himself against her, keeping his voice low as he murmured reassurances.

"Baby, please. Look at me. Sansa, I'm here. Look at me," he rasped calmly.

Her tear-filled eyes opened, pained and panicked, and a quiet sob escaped her lips as she stared at him. With the man behind him, preoccupied as he paced furiously and muttered to himself, Sandor brushed his lips against her cheek gently before fixing his eyes to hers.

"It's okay. Just keep looking at me. I'm so sorry. I'm going to make this better. I promise I will make it better."

With each of his words, her tears came more freely, as if she didn't believe him. With him as powerless as she was, his promises meant nothing to her in this moment. It was one thing to be powerless to protect himself, yet the notion that he could no longer protect her beckoned a stinging and subsequent blurriness to emerge in his own eyes.

Even if it was reckless, and even if it got him killed, Sandor needed to at least get Sansa out of this. The man with the gun was unraveling, clearly ill-prepared for what he had been hired to do. Sandor saw the opportunity. It was risky, but if it worked, it could save her life and perhaps maybe his own.

With a steady rumble of laughter, Sandor looked up at the man, smiling wickedly at him as he turned on his side. Confused and distracted, the man shifted a bewildered stare to Sandor as he lowered his gun at him.

"What the fuck is so funny?" the man shouted, eyes wild and darting back towards the road above them as if Sandor had been let in on some bit of information that the man hadn't.

"Just tell me who put out the contract," Sandor cajoled, laughter still lacing his words. "Was it Marco?"

The man seemed to bristle at that, his body language beginning to give away all the dirty secrets he was desperately clinging to. Stepping forward, the man steadied the gun towards Sandor's face. Undaunted, Sandor continued as he buried his uncertainty behind a mocking smile.

"So it was him. I'm a bit offended. I would have thought he would have spared a bit more cash for a half-decent hit. Instead, he hired this shit show."

With his eyes intently fixed, Sandor glared at the man who had gone silent whilst he chewed his bottom lip with a fervor. It was working, Sandor knew. He was getting under the man's skin– the man who had expected fear and was met with mockery. A better man would have remained resilient, but truly, this hit was doomed to fail from the moment Marco, or whoever ordered it, chose these guys. They were clearly up-jumped mafia men, probably contacts from a lesser family, hardly made men by the looks of it.

Furious, the man crouched down next to Sandor as he spat his words bitterly.

"You don't know  _shit_ about me or my crew," the man fumed as his face contorted with rage, clearly more than offended by Sandor's implications that he was some wanna-be mobster. The words must have rung true, for the man was now pressing the end of his gun hard against Sandor's forehead.

The popping of gunshots echoed somewhere up above, eliciting a slew of curses to reverberate loudly from the man's lips. They both tensed in unison, neither of them having any way of knowing the outcome of those shots or whose men would be coming down the hill to their aid.

Sandor kept his eyes on the man, waiting for his opportunity to disarm him, regardless of who was coming down the hill. The man was fully distracted now, his gun easing up a bit from Sandor's head. By the way the man's eyes grew as wide as saucers and his mouth dangled open, Sandor surmised it was Bronn and Zulu coming down the hill in hurried shuffles. Without a second thought, Sandor worked himself to his knees and head-butted the man, paying no mind to the throb of pain it elicited from his forehead. The man yelped out in pain and dropped his gun to the ground as he cradled his face in his hands.

Running to Sandor's side, Zulu snatched up the gun and held it hard against the man's head. Now it was him on his knees, hands held up in the air as blood came gushing from his nose.

"The cop was a ruse," Bronn informed as he helped a flushed and bewildered Sansa to a seated position and cut the binds from her wrists. "He was one of their men. We figured it out quickly enough."

Still reeling, Sandor nodded his head and lifted his eyes as Zulu began to speak.

"Bullet between the eyes, he's in the trunk of the car," the kid declared as he motioned his head towards the road above them, never lifting his eyes from the bloodied man in front of him.

"Get the other two in there with him," Sandor instructed as Bronn began to cut through his bindings. "We'll take care of the bodies when we get back."

"What about him?" Zulu interrupted as he snatched up the man by the collar of his shirt and brought him to his feet. Sandor stared at the man, contemplating how satisfying it might be to put a bullet in his skull and be done with it. While he suspected Marco was behind the hit, he had no way of knowing for sure. Unfortunately, there were too many men Sandor had come to mistrust, and beyond that, there were too many men who wanted him dead. As much as it pained him to keep the man alive any longer, Sandor knew the fucker needed to be interrogated.

"I've got plans for him," Sandor intoned as he rose to his feet and scrutinized the man. "Gag him and put him in the trunk with his crew. He's going for a ride."

Understanding Sandor's meaning well enough, the man began to writhe within Zulu's grasp, struggling feebly to break free. Stepping forward, Bronn knocked the man out cold with one solid hit to the side of his head. As Zulu and Bronn carried the man's unconscious form up the hill, Sandor turned to Sansa who hadn't moved from her seated position. Staring at the ground in front of her, she seemed to be shocked into a withdrawn silence, unresponsive as he took her hands into his own and lifted her to her feet.

Cupping her cheeks, Sandor pressed a kiss to her forehead before wrapping her up tightly in his arms.

"I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry," he spoke on a mumble as he brushed his lips against her cheek. "I won't let anything like this ever happen again."

With her arms tucked firmly against her side, Sansa neither returned his embrace nor responded to his reassurances. Instead, she stilled in his embrace, her body tensing as his fingers gripped her. He could feel her beginning to tremble in his arms and heard as she took a sharp intake of breath.

"Get off of me," she demanded as she wriggled free of his grasp, pushing against him with a violent shove.

Stumbling backwards away from him, Sansa clenched her fists together as she narrowed her eyes at him with a look of disgust.

"Don't touch me," she breathed as her body shook, equal parts fear and anger, it would seem.

Instinctively, Sandor took a step towards her, desperately reaching out to her as he tried to bridge the distance between them.

"Sans-," he began before she interjected, angry tears spilling down her cheeks as she continued to slip away from him.

"This is your fault.  _Everything_ is your fault!" she bawled, glaring at him with a hatred he hadn't known her capable of. "None of this would be happening if it wasn't for you."

With her chest heaving in exasperated breaths, Sansa stared at him, lips trembling and eyes seeming to burn with outrage. She had reached her breaking point, and Sandor was ashamed to say he was quite possibly the one to break her. His life, his choices, and the consequences of his actions were destroying her. Sansa had the right of it, he knew. This was entirely his fault.

"Little bird, please," he pleaded with her as he tried to pull her into his arms once more with as much care as possible. "I know, and I'll make it better."

Yanking her arm from him, Sansa abruptly backed away, her cheeks flushed with a deep shade of pink and her eyes wild with her own sort of fury.

"No! You say that, but you're lying," she cried out as she dug both of her palms into his chest and pushed him away with as much force as she could manage. "You can't make it better. You've already done enough."

Addled, Sandor stared wide-eyed at her, his own heart racing as he watched Sansa reach both hands behind her neck. Her fingers worked quickly, and with one swift movement, she pulled free his mother's necklace. Holding it out for him, Sansa stared him dead in the eyes as she steadied her voice.

"Take it. I don't want it. I don't want any of this," she asserted coldly and with the same icy aloofness he had seen in her yesterday. "You can force me to stay, but you can't make me want you. If you don't take me home, I'll find my own way."

Disoriented and reeling, Sandor found he could only stare at his mother's necklace dangling off of Sansa's trembling fingers. The gemstone caught the sunlight as it swayed delicately in the gentle breeze. He hadn't enough time to reach for it; the connection between his muddled thoughts and the movements of his body was completely severed in this moment. Dropping the necklace to the ground, Sansa turned away from him and started off towards the hill.

"Go with her," Sandor heard Bronn whisper to Zulu, not knowing and not caring how long the both of them had been standing silently next to him.

Sandor's eyes remained on the amethyst covered in dirt at his feet. The sound of Zulu's voice seemed far away, almost as if he were underwater; the words understandable, but not fully registering.

"Come on, Miss Sansa. You're alright now," Zulu assured her, helping Sansa up the hill as her cries began again.

With his legs feeling like jello beneath him and hardly able to hold his weight, Sandor fell to his knees, and with trembling hands, pulled the necklace from the dirt. His heartbeat pounded through his ears, the sound almost deafening as he squeezed his eyes shut and tucked the necklace into his pocket.

It was what he deserved; he knew it. After all, it was only fair. He had destroyed her, and now she had destroyed him too.

"We've got to go," Bronn gently insisted as he helped Sandor to his feet. "I can't get a hold of Vinny, Thomas, or Mirabelle."

* * *

Sansa swore she was drifting in and out of consciousness, and in truth, she probably was. The images of everything happening around her were blurred about the edges, seeming to don a halo of indistinct light which possessed a piercing brightness before inevitably fading to black. On it went, this oscillatory state of light and consciousness. With it, time seemed to take bizarre diversions, speeding up and slowing down at will.

Rendered into a state of shock and panic, Sansa allowed herself the loss of control, too weak to stave off her body's insatiable need to slip away towards blackness. Even as she let her eyes eventually seal shut, Sansa somehow remained wholly aware of her surroundings, unwilling to surrender herself to the totality of unconsciousness. Opening her eyes once more, Sansa found herself leaning against Zulu in the backseat of Bronn's car, her head resting heavily on the boy's shoulder. Perhaps it was a trick of the eye, but the scenery outside the deeply tinted window seemed to blaze by at an impossible rate of speed. Blinking hard and conjuring her senses the best she could, Sansa stared out the window again only to find that this was no backseat phantasmagoria. Sandor was maneuvering the car at a frenetic rate of speed, navigating his way around fellow travelers and whizzing by them as if they were not moving at all.

Saturating a T-shirt with a bottle of water, Zulu dabbed the fabric at the gash on Sansa's forehead, carefully wiping away the blood with a gentle touch. Whenever she would wince at the resulting sting of pain, Zulu would pull the fabric away and ask if she was okay. Over and over, this cycle endured: the delicate care he took in tending to her injury, her yelping out with each twinge of pain, and him asking if she was alright. Finally, Sansa took the bundled-up T-shirt from his hands and tended to her own wounds, still mindful enough to thank him for his concern as he stared at her with worried eyes.

Sansa remembered hearing Bronn's voice within the fleeting darkness. It came strained with vexation and always repeated the same words. 'Not picking up,' he would say. Or sometimes, 'Still no answer.' Regardless of the particular phrase spoken, the pattern in his voice– the timbre, the tone, the inflection– was accelerating swiftly towards dread and panic.

Now fully cognizant, Sansa realized she hadn't dreamed that bit up. In the passenger seat next to Sandor, Bronn anxiously swiped a trembling finger over the screen of his phone before pressing it to his ear. Each time he did this he would lift his uneasy eyes towards Sandor. Many seconds of silence would pass, each seeming to weigh heavier on him, until finally he would pull the phone away from his face and mutter one of his defeated phrases.

From her vantage point in the backseat, Sansa glanced at the rear-view mirror and could see Sandor's eyes contained within it. Fully engrossed in what he was doing, Bronn perhaps did not notice what Sansa saw so plainly; Sandor was scared. Today, for the first time, she had seen him lose himself in fear, something she hadn't quite thought possible with him. She had seen the man lose himself in anger, but never in fear. Somehow that brought about Sansa's own fear, and with it, the indelible sense that something was terribly wrong.

Incessantly, Bronn continued with his circuit of unanswered calls, the subsequent headiness of unease almost stifling as it continued to proliferate with each passing minute. She wanted him to stop, to rip the phone from his hands and toss it out the window. However, the man continued– undaunted and clearly devastated each time his calls were ushered to voicemail.

When the car finally flew into the half-circle drive of the Moriarti mansion and screeched to an abrupt halt behind Vinny's parked vehicle, the nauseating tension filling the car had become claustrophobic. Slowly stepping out from the backseat, Sansa leaned against the car for support as a wave of dizziness seemed to sweep through her. Taking a moment to stretch her limbs, Sansa's vision was pulled to three crows circling above them. With a few flaps of their wings, the birds soared towards the house and landed on the gutters, perching amongst perhaps two dozen or more of their brethren. Staring down on them with beady eyes, one of the birds began to squawk, the noise dissonant and shrill to her ears. Another joined with a reverberating caw, followed by yet another. By the time Zulu had taken her by the arm to lead her inside behind Sandor and Bronn, more birds had joined the chorus until the murder of crows sang from the gutters, sorrowful and somehow knowing.

The front door to the mansion was ajar as they approached. Sandor and Bronn were already inside as Zulu cautiously pushed the door open with one hand while the other remained firmly wrapped around Sansa's upper arm.

She caught only a glimpse of the sight inside the house before her face was being pressed against Zulu's chest. Some instinct of protectiveness on his part brought his arm around her shoulders and cradled her head against him so that she could not see.

A glimpse had been enough, though. The fleeting image of what she saw was seemingly burned into the back of her eyes, projected against the darkness like some gruesome still-frame.

Red. She had seen red: glossy pools against the taupe tile, splattered in dots along the wall, in smears across the floor. So much red, stark against the neutral, earthen tones of the foyer.

Eyes open against the black of Zulu's T-shirt, Sansa could feel his frantic breaths as his chest rose and fell against her face, and his heart sounded as though it might beat right out of his chest. Only then did Sansa realize he was shaking, the convulsions rattling through his body as he clung to her tightly for purchase.

Whatever initial shock had rendered the room nearly silent passed quickly enough, and the sounds that followed in its wake sent a chill through her spine and beckoned her blood to curdle at their ghastliness.

An agonized moan exited Bronn's lips followed by a squeal of curses. A thud, as if someone had just fallen to the floor. More nightmarish, inhuman sounds echoed through the foyer, terrible cries of anguish, more akin to beast than man.

As Zulu's grip on her loosened ever so slightly, Sansa rotated her head towards the noises, regretting immediately her decision to do so and damning her petrified instinct to see what had filled the room with such collective horror.

Mirabelle was barely recognizable: her face a bloodied mess, her nose set grotesquely through a clean break, her eyes swollen shut, lips busted, and mouth open to reveal broken teeth where a pretty smile had once been. By some naively hopeful thought, Sansa imagined that might be the worst of it– that although badly beaten, these wounds would heal and her face could be put back together again.

Sansa's eyes lifted to Sandor then, his form facing her as he knelt beside his sister. While Bronn wailed next to him as he cradled Mirabelle's broken face in his trembling hands, Sandor was eerily silent, making hardly a sound. However, his shoulders were shaking violently, his body nearly tumbling over on top of Mirabelle's form. His chest heaved as he stared down at his sister. Nothing in the world could take his eyes away from Mirabelle in that moment, and yet Sansa only needed to glance at those eyes to know how truly bad it was.

He wept. In silent sobs, he wept as his face contorted into an excruciated expression. Sansa's eyes were drawn down in the direction of what Sandor was staring at, the source of his devastation in this moment.

Mirabelle's torso was a mess of blood, nearly ripped open, although the flesh was indiscernible from the fabric of her shirt, if that was even still there. The woman was now clothed in blood and gore, a death so violent Sansa felt her limbs growing weak from numbness. Lying a few feet from Mirabelle was Thomas, face down in a pool of his own blood, which had seeped from his body to pool with Mirabelle's. Bone and brain bathed the wall in front of him, his quick death a cruel juxtaposition to Mirabelle's brutal one. With the right upper half of his head split open and seeping with fresh blood, Vinny was pulling himself across the foyer, leaving a smear of red as he went, and each breath exiting his lips as a wheeze while his pained moans terminated as gurgles in his throat. And his throat; it appeared, like his head, to have been slit open with the intent of the man meeting a slow demise by bleeding out.

In the end, Zulu had nearly dragged Sansa from the house, half-carrying and half-pulling her towards the front steps. Her legs, along with the rest of her body, were shaking so violently her steps were more like stumbles. Slipping from Zulu's weakened grasp, Sansa collapsed to the concrete below her feet, crawling on hands and knees as a muffled cry escaped her lips, which was eclipsed by Sandor's screams coming from the house. Even outside, they echoed loud in her ears, coming as clamorous roars swathed heavily in an inconsolable anguish. Lifting her eyes up towards the house, Sansa saw the row of black birds dotting the gutter, unmoving and entirely still.

And perhaps the most unsettling thing of all was the way in which the murder of crows had gone completely silent.

* * *

 

 

 

_Mafia dictionary_

**Che pecatto:** What a pity, what a shame

**Stand-up guy (girl):** Essentially, don't be a rat. A stand-up guy will do whatever he needs to do to keep the details of the mafia life underwrap and do whatever is needed of them. This applies to the women as well.

**Headhunter:** a hitman

**Going for a ride:**  to disappear; if you go for a ride, you don't come back

 

 

 

_Song List_

**Ch. 11**

"Knockin' On Heaven's Door" Bob Dylan

"Outlaw Heart" Tiger Army

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to assure that whatever decisions I make in terms of character interactions/plot lines for this story are thoughtfully done and planned out well in advance with careful consideration. This doesn't apply to this chapter in particular, but to the story as a whole.
> 
> I also want to assure my readers that in writing a dark story, I am very much purposeful with how I write things and what I choose to write. Nothing is shocking for the sake of being shocking.
> 
> The events of this chapter have been planned since day one. I never thought I would become so attached to my original characters and I tried endlessly to find ways to avoid all of this. For this to be the story I want it to be, these events needed to happen. I'm so sorry.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: 
> 
> Graphic depictions of violence, language, and sexual content as well as the typical darkness you would expect from this story. There is also some dubcon elements in one scene (the beginning and end of this particular section are indicated by an * so you can skip if you would like).

 

**Gods and Monsters**

Chapter 12

* * *

Alberto Moriarti counted the chimes sounding from the grandfather clock as he quietly paced his office - the only true sanctuary within his own home. Twelve chimes he counted as he smoothed down the whiskers of his graying mustache with the pad of his thumb.  _Twelve._   _The witching hour._

The space of his office was humble, much smaller than Sandor's office, but Alberto had chosen this room because it contained a fireplace, something Sandor did not much care for. Even though the night was not particularly cool, Moriarti had lit a fire anyway, more for comfort than warmth and with the hope of chasing away the chill that had seeped deep into his tired bones. The pops and crackles of the fire seemed to soothe away the frayed ends of his nerves - that and the whiskey sour on which he was sipping.

The day had been long, and if it were not for one last task yet to be completed, the man would have long ago willingly surrendered himself to slumber and whatever nightmarish haunts awaited him in dreams.

When the clock had chimed at a quarter till eleven this morning, Moriarti had already been quite cognizant of the fact that he was running late for a lunch date with an old friend - an insufferable bastard who he had the profound misfortune of knowing since childhood. Since the age of seven, Alberto had put on an apparently compelling charade that he enjoyed this gentleman's company.

Time seemed to slip through Moriarti's hands, punctuated by both happiness and tragedy as is to be expected. It wasn't until his other friends - dear, kindred souls - started dropping like flies with disease or old age that Alberto finally took stock of his circle of companions and realized it was rapidly dwindling. By some irony of fate, the man with whom he had had lunch today was outliving all the rest, defiantly ensuring that he and Alberto would see one another to the grave.

With his wife, Francisca, having long ago passed, Alberto began to question his own mortality. No longer did the man fear death, but rather he feared a life devoid of the few souls he had come to love and cherish. Having expected to be survived by a large brood of children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren, Alberto found old age to not only be dreadfully boring, but unexpectedly lonely as well. And perhaps for that reason and that reason alone, he marked on his calendar lunch with a man who he had almost successfully rid himself of.

Never one to tolerate tardiness in himself or in others, Alberto had dashed to his car after becoming fully aware of the time. Even as he sped from the half-circle drive, the murder of crows circling the property did not escape him. They were a glaring oddity of the landscape, the arid desert hardly sufficient at sustaining them. He had thought of Mirabelle then - inexplicably and with a heaviness that burrowed deep into the pit of his stomach.

Alberto fancied himself a man of logic, and yet superstition held a particular and, at times, unnerving sway over him. Both logic and superstition, although polarized within him, had established a sort of equilibrium with one another over the years. However, it was the superstition Alberto played close to his chest, revealing this propensity of his to only a few treasured individuals.

With his appetite all but diminished by the time he arrived ten minutes late to his lunch, Alberto had remained quiet for most of the meal, picking at the more delectable bits and pieces of his cob salad while leaving the rest uneaten. Either unfazed or unaware, his lunch companion had talked incessantly as he was apt to do - the topics of his conversations having grown increasingly boring over the years.

From his vantage point in the restaurant, Alberto had seen a single crow picking at carrion on the road, hobbling out of the way as cars passed. It was his mother's voice, heavy with a thick Italian accent, he heard in his head - the way she counted crows and whispered beneath her breath with words both solemn and troubling:

_One for sorrow, two's for mirth_  
 _three's a wedding, four's a birth_  
 _five for silver, six for gold_  
 _seven's a secret, never to be told._

If there was only one crow in sight, his mother would scour the sky for others, willing the omen away from sorrow towards something else. Fidgeting nervously in the restaurant booth, Alberto had done the same; all the while it was Mirabelle he thought of - laughing, singing, smiling, dancing; his Mirabelle, the only daughter he would ever have, even if she was not truly his own. Although pleasant visions, they resonated within him disconcertingly.

 _Why Mirabelle? Why her?_ The question rang out like an alarm in his mind as his thoughts seemed to be dictated by some force outside his own being, perhaps a premonition of sorts.

Dropping his fork to the plate with a clamorous crash, Alberto had lifted himself to his feet, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest as his fingers clumsily fumbled for his wallet.

"I beg your pardon, old friend, but I have to go. I fear something is terribly wrong," he had explained on a tremulous breath before pressing a twenty dollar bill to the table with a shaky hand.

In the car, Alberto had reached for his phone, his hands frantically roaming the center console, sliding between slender crevices with greedy fingers while his eyes steadied on the road. Patting his pockets in frustration only to find them empty, Alberto had finally come to the realization that in a rush to get out the door, he had left his phone on his office desk. Although he had sped down the highway well beyond the speed limit, the drive home - a mere thirty minutes - passed by at an agonizingly dawdling pace.

From the entrance of the gated community in which he lived, Alberto had seen the piercing brightness of flashing reds and blues somewhere down the street. That was when his prayers began, his pleading with God for it to be his neighbor's house. Perhaps the old woman next door had broken her hip again, or the little boy across the street was having another one of his seizures. With a sobering sense of reality clutching at his core, Alberto knew his prayers would not be answered, not today. And so he had hoped for the best, whatever that may mean: a minor scuffle with law enforcement or even a shake down by the feds.

As he had cautiously pulled the car into the half-circle drive, there were simply too many flashing lights to indicate something trivial had unfolded. The drive in front of his house was a veritable parking lot of emergency vehicles - ambulances, police cars, even a fire truck - all lit up like the Fourth of July in reds, whites, and blues. From across the street, neighbors had gathered, all spilling forth from their houses, peering with worried eyes towards whatever pandemonium had played out.

A man in uniform had approached his vehicle and tried to grimly usher Moriarti away, explaining that he needed to leave the premises of the property. With his throat drying up as if he had swallowed a fistful of sand, Alberto had fleetingly explained that this was his home and rushed up the driveway with no argument from the police officer.

He could have run, although there was nothing he could have done at that point. Instead, he had walked slowly, which to reflect on later, would seem like floating through a dream. Each face he passed, regardless of profession, all had the complete visage of being horrified, somber, and shaken. This was the aftermath of an emergency - the panic had quieted down, and now all that was left to do was pick up the pieces. One ambulance had pulled out of the drive, lights flashing and sirens blaring.

On the front steps, the Stark girl had been shaking; tears streamed down her face, and her breaths came gasping as she gulped for air. A young made man - Zulu was his name - held her in his arms, although he appeared no more composed than Sansa. Wide-eyed, the boy gazed off with a thousand-mile-away stare, appearing much like a shell-shocked soldier in the aftermath of battle.

It was Bronn he had heard though - screaming and wailing, begging and pleading, although to whom Alberto did not know; God perhaps or maybe the officers who were trying in vain to calm him. The man seemed transfixed on an ambulance, one that had been sealed shut and was going nowhere, at least not yet. ' _Do something. Bring her back,'_ he had kept shouting as he gestured furiously with his arms towards the unmoving ambulance. ' _Why aren't you doing anything?'_ he would then plead as no one seemed to make a move towards the object of his unwavering interest.

In hushed tones - reassuring yet firm - the men in uniform would speak to him, although Moriarti could not hear what they said. Whatever it was, it would elicit sobs as Bronn would turn once more towards the ambulance, staring at it as if it held his most prized possession. Alberto knew then. He was an observant man, and even if he wasn't, he still could have seen the affection that passed between Bronn and Mirabelle. Alberto knew. He knew Mirabelle was in that ambulance, and he knew the answers to all of Bronn's questions. They weren't doing anything because there was nothing to be done. Bronn had indeed lost his most prized possession.

It was then Alberto saw Sandor through the open doorway and on the far side of the foyer. Sitting with his back against the wall, knees pulled towards his chest and forearms resting on knees, he had been crying. Not the yowling wails as Bronn had, but in stifled sobs as he sat amongst the blood and gore, seeming to not care as it soaked into his clothing and stained his hands. The emergency workers seemed to delicately meander around him, leaving Sandor alone with his grief in a gesture of respect.

Before Alberto could go to him, a man introducing himself as the lead detective had ushered him to the periphery of the driveway. Once more, Mortiarti had felt like he was floating through a mist, his senses dull and slow to process all he was being told.

Mirabelle was gone and Thomas too. Vinny's injuries were grave, but he was still alive and on his way to a hospital.

All along, Alberto had known. Like a ripple in unsettled waters, he had known what was coming. Black wings portending sorrow had been picking at carrion on the road, and he had thought of Mirabelle. Alberto had wanted to crumble like all the rest of them. He wanted to shake as violently as Sansa Stark; he wanted numbness to take him as it had Zulu. He wanted to wail and plead as loudly as Bronn, and he wanted to silently sob his own sorrow amongst the sanguinary remains of his kin as Sandor was.

As the detective sympathetically waited for a response, Alberto had known why he was approached. Somehow he had been dubbed the one who would have to hold it all together when everything had suddenly began to pull apart. He gave what information he had and answered what questions he could. Roped off and filled with investigators carefully working around one another, his foyer had become a crime scene, although there was not much evidence to be found. It was before dark when the secondary responders arrived to clean up the mess of blood and gore and a half past ten before the house was voided of emergency workers completely.

The news of what happened had spread like wild fire through the ranks of the organization until every last soul associated with the Moriarti crime family seemed to know the horror that had unfolded today. Eventually, a handful of the more influential capos showed up at the house. Well into the night, Moriarti maintained himself while battling constantly with the desire to come undone.

 _Keep it together just a little while longer,_ he had reassured himself.

Alberto listened intently as he was informed of the accident that had occurred and the attempted hit on Sandor, which was narrowly missed. Some of the men raged, swearing that they wanted blood for blood. A few others silently shook their heads in disbelief, unable to make any coherent sense out of all that transpired. Regardless, they were united in their support, assured their allegiance and committed themselves to whatever retaliation was deemed necessary. At a half past eleven, the men all shook Moriarti's hand, offered their sincerest condolences, and retreated from his office.

It was then he had begun to pace, to occupy his mind and body until his final task of the day was done. He studied the many framed photographs which adorned one of his bookcase shelves. The faces of his past stared back at him. Many had passed away with age, some had sought a quieter existence with their own families, others did not survive the life of a made man. Regardless, each one had eventually paid the price for their involvement with the Moriarti family.

Feeling his luck was quickly running dry, Alberto had stepped down from his position as boss, something rather unheard of and met with varying degrees of shock and a fair bit of hostility when he named his successor.  _Put it away, old man. Hang up your hat before it's too late,_ he had told himself. All these years later, Alberto had considered himself lucky to have gone relatively unscathed during his tenure as boss of the Moriarti crime family. Only now did he come to realize that tragedy was not avoided altogether, but rather just delayed.

When a light rapping came at his door, Alberto spun away from the bookcase, startled despite the arrival of a much anticipated visitor. Smoothing down the front of his dress shirt, Alberto poised himself before calling out, his voice strained with growing fatigue.

"Yes, come in."

The door opened with a bit of hesitance, and the boy stepped in, eyes taking in the sight of the warm, dimly lit room. Carefully shutting the door behind him, Zulu stood with his arms at his side, swaying ever so slightly with nervousness.

"Sir," he greeted with a polite and timid nod of the head, although his eyes did not falter from Alberto.

Stepping forward, Moriarti shook the kid's hand in an effort to set him at ease. Although average in height and build, Zulu was a peculiar departure from most young made men who puffed out their chests and tended towards arrogance as a means of asserting themselves. Donning a sleeveless black shirt, Alberto could see that from shoulder to wrist each of the boy's arms were decorated with an array of tattoos carefully pieced together, creating sleeves of colorful pictures and symbols. With his head shaved on either side, a mass of thick black hair on top was smoothed back in a glossy quiff. If appearances were anything to go by, the boy didn't quite fit the bill as a young made man. Beyond that, he was quiet where the others were boisterous, respectful where others tested the limits of their superiors, and keenly observant where his peers were often obtusely unaware of their surroundings.

Observant in his own right, it hadn't taken long for Alberto to notice that Zulu was effectually shunned by his peers, excluded for one reason or another, perhaps because he didn't quite look like all the others, but more than likely because he did not have Italian blood running through his veins.

"I'm embarrassed to say I do not know your given name," Alberto began with a tired smile as he clutched the boy's hand. "Zulu may be a term of endearment amongst the men, but I wish to address you as your parents might have addressed you."

Returning the handshake with a firm squeeze, Zulu exhaled a mirthless laugh and lowered his eyes, the hurt already evident despite his attempt at discretion.

"My parents had their own terms of endearment for me, none of which are appropriate to repeat. Zulu works just fine by me."

Unwilling to force the issue, Alberto released the boy's hand and retreated to his office chair. He knew little of Zulu's past, only that the boy had no true family to call his own. Unlike many of the other made men who boasted long lineages of mafia connections, Zulu was a runaway, a drifter who had through Bronn's tutelage proven himself dependable and rather useful. That was yet another thing that set him apart from the others: the practicality and utility of his intelligence.

"Well then, Zulu, have a seat, please," Alberto gently urged with a nod of his head towards the wooden chair situated on the other side of his desk.

Wordlessly, Zulu seated himself while his amber-colored eyes seemed to gravitate towards the photographs that Alberto himself had been studying only moments ago. In silence, Moriarti watched the subtle movements of the boy's face as he took in the details of each picture.

"I served in Vietnam from 1965 to 1969," Alberto divulged after following Zulu's eyes to one picture in particular. Interestingly, it was a picture of Alberto and Sandor's father: arm in arm while smiling stupidly with standard issue cargo pants slung low on their hips, shirtless and with cigarettes hanging from their lips. "I was nineteen when I was sent over, part of the first wave of troops sent in to start the ground war. I couldn't legally drink a beer, but I was apparently old enough to hold a gun and wade through the jungle. I still have nightmares of the things I saw, the things I had to do."

Zulu let his eyes fall away from the photograph and drift back towards Alberto. The boy nodded his head, although Moriarti knew he, like so many others, could never possibly understand what it meant to live through war, to wake up in cold sweats while grasping for an M14 only to find it had been yet another dream decades after the fighting had ended.

"I took over the organization from my father in 1971 after spending two years trying to decompress the best I could," Alberto continued on, studying the sadness that seemed to color Zulu's countenance. "Sometimes I fear I stepped down at the wrong time, that I should I have handed off my legacy later than I did."

Allowing his voice to trail off, Alberto found himself speaking of fears he hadn't quite told anyone before. Fears, like superstitions, he played close to his chest, and yet Zulu quietly listened with an intentness others didn't often reserve for an old man's musings over regrets of the past. Clearing his throat, Alberto collected his senses and directed the course of the conversation back on track.

"You do know my place in all of this, don't you?" Alberto inquired.

"Yes, sir," Zulu nodded, eyes firmly planted on Alberto. "You're the Consigliere to Sandor."

Moriarti returned the boy's stare and offered a satisfied smile.  _Observant, indeed._

"It means "adviser"in Italian," Alberto informed while swirling the contents of the cocktail glass in his hand. "And as such, I advise him the best I can. I watch too. Just like you. You're perceptive, I can tell. I see things that perhaps Sandor misses or cannot see because it's too close. When you hold your hand in front of your eyes, all you see is darkness. You may not realize you have the power to stop the darkness by simply pulling your hand away. It's these sorts of things I strive to make him understand, to varying degrees of success."

Although his eyes were now down-turned and studying the melting ice in his glass, Alberto knew the boy was looking at him. No,  _watching_ him. If he had to guess, Zulu was likely to be wondering what the point of this was, but was too polite to out-and-out ask. Truly, Moriarti had not called the boy into his office to reminisce about his past and educate on the hierarchy of the organization.

Setting the glass down, Alberto scooted his chair closer to the desk and rested his arms against its wooden edge, hands clasped together as he met the boy's eyes.

"The other part of my responsibilities is to step in when the boss and underboss are indisposed. To say that Sandor and Bronn are indisposed at the current time is a gross understatement, as you can imagine."

Exhaling a breath, Zulu nodded his head as he settled back into his seat, finally releasing a bit of the intensity he held in his frame. Regardless, the room seemed to darken with Alberto's words, and a sudden chill seemed to pass through both men at once as they shuddered in unison.

"How is the Stark girl, Sansa, holding up?" Alberto asked, lowering his voice, although he couldn't quite say why.

A sort of vigilance seemed to overcome any lingering traces of hesitance Zulu had been holding onto. Intensity sparked within the depths of the boy's eyes, clear enough for Alberto to see even in the dimness of his office.

"She's shaken up pretty badly with everything that happened today," the boy informed matter-of-factly, perhaps in an effort to disguise a bit of his concern. "She's asleep now, went to bed about an hour ago."

"Do you know why you're here, son?" Alberto probed after a heavy silence had settled between them.

"I imagine it has something to do with what happened today, sir," Zulu replied, his eyes narrowing with curiosity.

"It does. Today I observed something I find interesting: you being rather protective of Sansa, holding her tight in your arms as if she might fly away. And she clung to you in return."

While the words came even-toned from Moriarti's lips, perhaps even with an air of nonchalance, Zulu's eyes went wide nonetheless, and the boy swallowed hard.

"I meant no disrespect to you, Mr. Moriarti. Or anyone else for that matter," the boy spoke, nonplussed and struggling to keep his resolve, or so it seemed.

"I think you misunderstand, Zulu," Alberto corrected, eyes flickering towards one of the photographs on his shelf before finding their way back towards the boy. "Everything changed today, for all of us. Nothing will ever be the same. Troubled times are upon us, and I fear for what lies ahead. I will do everything in my power to keep this organization from coming undone at the seams. However, I learned long ago that I cannot control the actions of others, and therefore, I am afraid I'm powerless to stop whatever Sandor or Bronn might do in the days and weeks to come. All I can do - all  _any_  of us can do - is brace ourselves. The storm has only just begun."

With his chair swiveling back and forth in a slow arcing motion, Alberto lifted his gaze to gauge the boy's reaction. While concern began to pool in Zulu's eyes, he seemed to understand, to know all the unspoken implications hanging heavily in the silence.

"I called you here because I want to ask you to keep an eye on Sansa," Alberto conceded finally. "Heaven knows the last thing the girl needs is to get lost in the shuffle while we sort out what happened and who's responsible. We are all family in this organization, and we take care of our own. She is no exception to that. Don't smother her, but I want you to put those protective instincts to good use. I would like you to stay here. That is, of course, if you would like to. You can call this your home for the time being; stay here until everything settles down, whenever that might be."

"I can do that, sir," Zulu responded, bemused and a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And thank you, Mr. Moriarti, for letting me stay here. I think I'd like that very much."

For possibly the first time since this morning, Alberto felt a smile creep across his own lips. There was something distinctly humble about Zulu, yet another trait that seemed to set the boy apart. If Alberto had to guess, Zulu expected very little out of life, and therefore, took what was given to him with a sincere form of gratitude and gratefulness.

Although he had suspected it before, Alberto came to realize there was something haunting about the kid as well. Certainly, some might find the Zulu's reserved watchfulness unnerving, but Alberto knew better than to dismiss it as sullenness. The boy had quietly stood by for so long, fading into the background to be constantly overlooked by the others who seemed to scramble for recognition and for their voice to be heard. Somehow, Zulu had begun to stand out despite his quiet nature.

"There's something Sansa told me tonight," Zulu spoke with unease. "Something about Vinny."

Intrigued, Alberto nodded his head in a gesture for the boy to continue on.

"Last night, she overheard a phone conversation he was having. She said it seemed as though he didn't want anyone to hear. He assured whoever he was talking to that she and Sandor would be together today. I know I was only made two years ago, and I'm still probably something of a turk, but I think Vinny was involved with the attempted hit."

Silent as he processed the information he was told, Alberto squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. While his direct involvement with the capos was limited, Vinny's apparent loyalty to Sicilian tradition did not escape Alberto. In his own right, Vinny stood out amongst the men, many of whom had set aside the outdated modes of preserving tradition in favor of a liberal approach to the handling of mafia business. True to the Sicilian fashion, any qualms Vinny may have with Sandor would be handled with fatal actions, not words.

"Did she say anything else?" Alberto pressed.

"He took a phone call the other night, the night we were in Crescent City. Sansa said he stepped into the other room, and Mirabelle told her he was probably talking to his goomah."

Alberto nodded wordlessly, realizing now how convoluted the situation just might be. Settling a stare onto Zulu, Moriarti found the boy once more, staring back at him. He was watching, always watching. Obedient as ever, the kid was also waiting - for orders, for insight, for Alberto's thoughts on the matter. However, this wasn't the mindless sort of deference most of the men paid to their superiors. Zulu had connected the dots in his own mind, yet was too timid and respectful to reveal what he had come up with.

"What do you think?" Alberto asked, leaning forward over his desk as he watched Zulu in return.

The boy went wide-eyed, his mouth opening and closing a few times before any words formed on his lips.

"Wh-what…what do I think?" Zulu stammered, visibly caught off guard by the inquiry.

"Yes, I'm asking for your opinion, son," Alberto gently assured.

For a few moments, Zulu was silent as he seemed to gather his thoughts. When he finally spoke, it was with confidence - as though he had gone through it all enough times in his head that he was sure what he had come up with was logical and potentially right on the money.

"I think it's no coincidence that this all happened at the same time. What happened to Mirabelle and Thomas is somehow linked to the attempted hit on Sandor. They were meant to happen at the same time. The men pulling off the hit weren't going to kill Sandor or Sansa. They were too sloppy, too inexperienced."

While he hadn't yet gotten the full details of the attempted hit, Alberto understood well enough that it must have been botched in order for Sandor and Sansa to still be alive.

"They tied Sansa and Sandor up," Zulu continued, encouraged by Alberto's obvious interest in the matter. "If they were going to kill them, they wouldn't have done that. I think they were going to transport them, maybe deliver them to someone else."

"To someone who potentially wanted to carry out the hit themselves," Alberto added with a solemn nod of the head. "If whoever is behind this wanted Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane dead, it would have happened. I think we both know that."

Zulu nodded his understanding, realizing for perhaps the first time how lucky he was to have walked away unscathed by the events of the afternoon.

"What about Vinny?" he questioned darkly, something hardening in his countenance.

Alberto weighed his words before speaking. All too easily, Vinny could become the sole target for vengeance, but Moriarti sensed the man was only a minor player in a much bigger picture.

"Vinny is laid up in the hospital right now in serious, but stable condition," Alberto finally offered. "If what Sansa heard is true, I have no doubt he is involved in some way. How deep, we won't know until he comes to and we talk to him."

Sucking in a deep breath and nodding, Zulu lowered his gaze to his hands folded in his lap. When he spoke again, Alberto, for the first time in the span of their conversation, saw fear in the boy's eyes.

"What do you think will happen with Sandor, Mr. Moriarti?"

While the boy's voice was steady, the words came heavy from his lips, the uncertainty lacing each syllable with hesitance and worry.

"More men will die before this is all said and done, Zulu," Alberto answered truthfully. Now was not the time for false reassurances, although he was sure Zulu would see through them anyway. "This could be our undoing. My concern now is to keep those not involved safe, including Sansa Stark."

Alberto had not quite answered the boy's question. Of this, he was fully aware. Taking a moment before continuing, his eyes flickered away from Zulu and back towards one of the pictures on his bookshelf. Moriarti's role was not quite as simple as being Sandor's Consigliere, and Alberto had come to realize Zulu seemed to recognize this.

"Sandor is like a son to me," he admitted quietly, though there was no shame in admitting it. In fact, he felt a swell of pride building within him to say the words out loud. "Regardless, he's dangerous - a loose cannon, more so now than ever before. In keeping an eye on Sansa, I need you to keep her away from him until he works through his demons. He's possessive of her, but do what you can. Don't let it be known that that's what you're doing; not to her and definitely not to him!"

With empathetic eyes, Zulu nodded his head and offered a forlorn smile which seemed to die on his lips almost as quickly as it had formed.

"I do believe it's time we retire. You must be tired and heavens know I am as well," Alberto softly spoke as he rose to his feet, his limbs aching in protest with his movements. Zulu followed suit and shook Alberto's hand before quietly retreating towards the door.

"Zulu," Alberto called out as the kid was about to step through the doorway. "If I thought you were a turk, I would have never asked to speak with you." Alberto paused as the boy's face was flooded with relief, or maybe disbelief, he couldn't quite tell. "You are family, son. And I meant it when I said we take care of our own. Goodnight."

"That means a lot of me, sir. Thank you," Zulu murmured, his eyes fracturing once more with immeasurable gratitude. Only then did it occur to Moriarti that perhaps this was the first time someone had ever claimed the boy as part of their family and promised the protection and closeness that goes along with it.

Long moments after the boy left, Alberto stayed at his desk, unmoving and silent, until he finally traversed the space between him and the photograph which had been beckoning him throughout the night. As he took the frame in hand, Moriarti studied Mirabelle's infectious smile, the way she had wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed the side of her face up against his. Even Sandor was smiling in the picture, something Mirabelle had told him he needed to do, if his memory served him. Sandwiched between Mirabelle and Sandor, Moriarti was smiling too - proud and joyful.  _They are not my own, but I love them all the same._

Although he may have never bounced her on his knee or checked for monsters under her bed, Alberto had come to love Mirabelle as a father loves a daughter. And the pain he felt was one of a parent losing a child, perhaps the most agonizing and cruel form of anguish God had ever inflicted upon man.

With his duties of the day finally done, Alberto clutched the picture frame tightly in his hands as his sorrow finally caught up with him. It was time to give up the ghost, to put aside his reserve and let himself unravel against the weight of his grief.

After all, it is our darkest hour - the witching hour of the soul - where we perhaps see ourselves for true and begin to understand just what we are made of: cowardice or bravery, righteousness or malice, good or evil, or perhaps various shades in between. The myriad of masks, which the world so falsely provides for us to cower behind, fall away and we are left with the nakedness of truth and an unobscured vision of ourselves, for better or for worse.

Alberto sat with his grief and cherished it because it was sacred. To dismiss the pain of loss - the exquisite pain crafted by the heavens above as a reminder we are much more than a body wandering a lonely rock floating through space - was to do her memory a tremendous disservice. For Mirabelle, he would relish the debilitating sense of sorrow until he could soak up her light once more. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, we are fashioned from stars, and to the stars we shall return, but not before we laugh, cry, sing, dance, love, and ultimately lose it all to gain something much greater, swapping the richness of emotion that is human life for an eternity wrapped among the cloak of the cosmos.

For now, he let himself come undone. He sunk to his knees and wept for all he had lost, all he had yet to lose. He cried for the senselessness of it all, for the cruelty, for his own mortality and the mortality of all that he loved. He cried until his body refused him anymore tears, until his head throbbed and his eyes became blurry. It was then he tiptoed to his bed and let sleep finally take him.

* * *

Four days after he passed, Thomas was laid to rest in a quaint cemetery within a sleepy little desert town not far outside of Las Vegas. The young man was survived by his mother and a little sister. Scanning Thomas' family members seated on the other side of the casket, Sansa did not see a father figure amongst the closest of his kin. His mother gracefully dabbed at tears forming in the corners of her eyes, looking more disgusted by what had happened than truly anguished. His little sister, no older than twelve if Sansa had to guess, somberly stared at the casket in front of her, her world falling to pieces if her eyes betrayed what was in her heart.

Of the faces that made up the crowd of funeral goers, Sansa recognized only a dozen or so, many of whom had attended Alonzo's funeral. The rest were strangers to her, and yet more than a few had stared at her as if they knew who she was. The looks she received had ranged from genuinely curious to overtly antagonistic and all the various shades in between.

Even now, Sansa could feel a set of piercing eyes boring through her as she tried in earnest to maintain her composure and ignore the feeling of being watched. Faltering, she shifted her gaze towards the woman she had seen lingering around in the days after what was now called the Moriarti massacre. Like most of the others, the woman's face - tanned, caked with make-up, and sporting a severe scowl - had been unfamiliar to her. She was a tall woman, her body mostly legs, and her figure having had some obvious work done to it. Nobody's breasts sat unmoving like rocks against their chest unless a plastic surgeon had something to do with it. Bottle blonde hair, fake nails, and fake breasts, this woman was a fraud even in her own bronzed skin. On either side of her were two other women, equally as phony and appearing to be less attractive replicas of the woman currently staring daggers through Sansa.

Before the ceremony started, Sansa had almost immediately spotted the women as they made their way towards Thomas' funeral plot. Sporting short skirts and high heels, their attire was more befitting a night out on the town than a funeral. Appalled, Sansa had rolled her eyes and huffed out a laugh to herself, something that did not go unseen by the blonde haired woman. Zulu, who had hardly left her side since the incident, lowered his voice as he murmured in her ear.

_'Prospective goomahs on the prowl. They're shameless.'_

Zulu's words were laced with venom, and by the looks others were giving these women, he was not the only one who loathed the production they were making out of a funeral of all things. Regardless, some of the men looked upon the women appreciatively, their eyes narrowing with desire as their lips curled discreetly into smiles.

Turning her eyes away from the blonde haired woman, Sansa looked to Zulu and allowed herself her own discreet smile - not one of desire, but of her own sort of appreciation. In the long hours after they had stumbled upon the horror that had unfolded in the Moriarti mansion, Zulu had stayed with her, offering reassurances, although she had clearly detected the fear and distress in his own demeanor.

He was being strong for her. He didn't have to be. He owed her nothing and barely knew her besides. Still, he had stayed with her well into the night: offering her tissues, one right after the other, gently urging her to eat something, although she continually refused, and finally, sitting quietly next to her as she tearfully confessed Vinny's conversation she had overheard. Although his eyes had become heavy with dismay and he seemed to momentarily stop breathing, Zulu had quickly intuited Sansa's silent fears and swiftly assured her she was not to blame for what had happened to Thomas and Mirabelle. Try as he might, Zulu could not persuade her to believe otherwise, and Sansa, eventually, through the fatigue of crying, surrendered herself to sleep, fitful though it was.

When she awoke the next morning feeling as though a knife had been driven straight through her heart, Zulu was there, patiently waiting outside her bedroom door and escorting her to the kitchen for breakfast. Sansa had remained mostly quiet that day and undoubtedly was poor company for the boy. He stayed by her side anyway, never coercing her into conversation or seeming irritated by her muteness. When she needed space, he gave her space, and when she finally broke out of her shell, even if only momentarily, he was there to offer her distractions.

They played board games, had movie marathons, and made small talk. Zulu asked questions about her life, her family, and where she grew up. As Sansa recounted her childhood and spoke at length about her family and Portland, the boy listened intently and seemed to soak up her every word with wonder. When she reciprocated his inquiries, Sansa saw Zulu visibly tense, his eyes straining with what she could only call the undercurrents of grief. The understanding had been immediate, and Sansa let it go, never inquiring again.

Although reserved and shy, Sansa found there was something kindred about Zulu. He was a gentle soul yet so obviously scarred by the unspoken tragedies of his past, whatever they may be. She wanted to ask how he had gotten here, what twists and turns of fate brought him to this place in his life where he was a made man for a mafia crime syndicate. Something told her that if she pushed hard enough, Zulu would deny her hardly anything, not even the knowledge of his most guarded secrets. However, she knew better and owed him much more than manipulations to satisfy her own curiosity.

In the days after the incident, the house had become a circus of activity: made men and their families coming and going, all of them doing what little they could to offset the heaviness of tragedy. The Italian mothers were back on duty, resuming their places in the kitchen and filling it with somber small talk as they rolled out dough and tended to their pasta sauces. Morning, noon, and night, the house seemed to stir endlessly with a steady rotation of individuals associated with the Moriarti family.

Unlike the aftermath of Alonzo's death, Sansa found she could no longer go unnoticed by those who were arriving to pay their respects, both to the dead and the living. They knew her name, they knew her face, they knew her story. And they seemed to have passed judgment before they really knew  _her_. Zulu's constant presence seemed to deflect a bit of the scrutiny she felt she was under, and for that she was grateful. Each day, a handful of new faces seemed to appear until the house was hardly empty for more than an hour at a time.

The face she had not seen, and the one she had constantly sought out, was Sandor's. During the day, he was undoubtedly preoccupied by the business at hand. By night, she did not know how he spent his time and imagined that was probably for the best. He hadn't come to her, and perhaps that was for the best too, although the bed she slept in felt cold and lonely without him in it. One afternoon, she had asked Zulu about Sandor, her voice quivering as she did so. The boy had turned to her and solemnly shook his head, indicating he knew no more than anyone else on how Sandor was faring. She had seen something else, though, stirring in Zulu's sympathetic eyes. Was it fear? No, it was something deeper, something resolute too. It mimicked a sincere sort of vexation and unease. Zulu had quickly changed the subject, and Sansa hadn't broached the topic since.

While Sansa had seen very little of Bronn, she had heard him often. From the kitchen, she could hear the man raging in the basement lounge. She never heard exactly the words he spoke, but his voice came in inexorable shouts, clamoring through the floorboards to meet her ears. Only after the man's bellowing demands dimenuendoed to a strained murmur did other voices, firm yet reassuring, begin to speak. At night, long after the house had finally stilled, Sansa would hear him in Mirabelle's room. With the headboard of the bed she slept in flush against the adjoining wall, Sansa would be awoken from shallow slumber by the muffled sounds of Bronn's voice.

Perhaps in death Mirabelle came to him in the form of dreams or maybe visions, Sansa could not say for sure. What she knew was that Bronn was speaking to Mirabelle - to her memory, to the room that was emptied of her, to whatever broken pieces of the love they shared that remained solely with him now. On the other side of the wall, Sansa quietly listened as the man eventually submitted to his grief by way of muffled sobs. Only once did she hear the words he spoke, and it had been enough for her to know that every night he spoke those same words, a mantra of heartache to the love that had left him.

_'What am I supposed to do here all alone? What am I supposed to do in a world without you, Mirabelle?'_

Upon hearing those words - so very desperate and afflicted by mourning - Sansa too had shed tears. She cried for Mirabelle, a woman she had only known for a short time, but had touched her life all the same. She cried for Bronn, one more lost soul with nothing left to anchor him as the storms set in. And for Sandor too, who had lost all and was drifting away from her now.

Night after night, this went on, and Sansa found that each time she heard Bronn descend into sorrow, she too felt tears sting her eyes before falling down her cheeks. She wondered if Bronn would ever know that just on the other side of the wall, she wept with him, for him. He wasn't alone, not truly.

After the crying would stop and the house settled into stillness again, Sansa would lie awake and alone in bed, agonizing over everything that had transpired and wondering endlessly if she could have somehow stopped it. It always started from the beginning: her dismissal of Vinny's conversation, the way Mirabelle had seemed to sense death was coming for her, the look of sheer heartbreak which colored Sandor's normally stoic demeanor as Sansa coldly returned his mother's necklace and declared she wanted nothing from him, not anymore.

_'Take it. I don't want it. I don't want any of this.'_

Even before the words had left her lips, Sansa knew the harm they would do, the way in which they would cut him to the bone and bleed him dry. She had said them anyway and regretted it almost immediately. The field had been leveled between them, both having committed egregious sins of the heart against the other. There was no happiness, no sweetness of vindication to be found in wounding him to the same extent he had wounded her. In the end, her heart ached not only for all the damage he had done, but for the pain she had so obviously and carelessly inflicted upon him as well.

Perhaps that was why love is dangerous - the concurrent knowledge of one another's endearing nuances and most debilitating vulnerabilities. To strike at the revealed weakness is a betrayal which cuts the deepest and bleeds the longest. They were both guilty of that crime against the bond they shared and the connection they forged. Only now, she knew he needed her the most. The only thing he had ever truly loved was ripped from him, mercilessly and with a cruelty that still threatened to destroy him. From the inside out, Sandor was falling apart. She didn't need to see him or speak to him to know that. Something in the way the world around her seemed to darken and fall silent echoed whatever turmoil was besieging him.

Besides, she had heard whispers of it, passing murmurs of the Italian mothers, or sometimes bits and pieces of hushed conversations between some of the men as they came and went. Sandor was slipping away, withdrawing into himself and shutting out anyone who tried to reach him.

If only she could take it all away, share the burden of his pain. She could be strong for him as he had been strong for her. When nightmares plagued him in the midnight hour, she would hold him close to quiet the silent screams. She would soothe away his hurts and kiss away the tears. Yes, she could be strong. For him and for her, she could be strong.

Sansa's thoughts disintegrated as the final words were spoken over Thomas' grave: words about love and hope, holding light in our hearts when the entire world had seemed to grow black.  _There is no light. Only darkness,_ she thought almost bitterly as her eyes once more captured a glimpse of Thomas' sister crying pitifully in her mother's arms.

Situated near the edge of the crowd and remaining firmly rooted where she was, Sansa watched as the mourners cleared away, one after the other as they all passed Thomas' casket one last time, murmuring words softly through barely moving lips, and then retreated towards their vehicles.

As a group of men and women in front of her shuffled away, Sansa caught sight of Sandor, statuesque and standing still in his spot. Arriving late, he must have hidden himself in the back of the crowd. She knew because she had looked for him as each person arrived and in all the faces of those who had already gathered around the funeral plot to pay their respects.

Although dressed in a pressed suit and with the long tendrils of his hair pulled back away from his face, Sandor was clothed in every bit of his grief; his face was gaunt and his skin ashen, dark circles had settled beneath his eyes, betraying the fact that he had scarcely slept in the past few days. He looked as though he were only a shell of himself - outwardly whole, but inwardly breaking apart and eroding away. With his hands clasped in front of him, he studied Thomas' casket with his jaw firmly set and his mouth contorting to a frown. The worst was yet to come, Sandor seemed to know, and Sansa did too. In this very moment, he seemed to understand that in a few short days, he would be laying his sister to rest. He would be the one to sit right before her casket with devastation written across his face.

Unbidden, Sansa felt the tears beginning to pool in her eyes, the vision of him slowly becoming bleary. In an instant, she let it all come undone: every scrap of stubbornness she had held onto prior to Mirabelle's death, every inner promise to steel herself against this man who had affected her so deeply, every inch of icy aloofness she had encapsulated herself in to keep him out. It all dissolved away, and in its place a sort of frenzy began - the maddening desire to go to him, to make it all stop, to end the suffering and ease away his pain.

"Come on, Miss Sansa. I'll take you back to the car," she faintly heard Zulu say, although she was hardly listening. The boy might as well have been a thousand miles away and trying to speak to her, his voice lost in the distance. Although Zulu gently took her by the arm and made a move to lead her back to the car, Sansa stood transfixed and unmoving.

Sandor's eyes had been drawn towards her and as she met his stare, he seemed to pull in a breath. His chin tipped up ever so slightly and his body went rigid, as if he were clinging to whatever scraps of composure he had left within him.

Sandor had once broken her heart with words, and yet it was what she saw, or rather what she didn't see, in his eyes which stole her breath and ripped her heart open anew. He was gone. The man she knew, the man she had felt herself growing to love, was gone, and perhaps the most disturbing thing of all was that there was nothing in his place - only emptiness and a darkened void of what he once was.

He was dead behind the eyes; where there had once been a burning intensity, now there was only darkness and resignation.

With just a look, Sansa at once understood all the whispers she had heard, the solemn secrets spoken in the past few days. The voices replayed in her mind:  _'He won't talk to anyone. Not even Alberto.' 'No one has seen him. I hear he's been in a whiskey-induced coma since it happened.' 'This is the calm before the storm. Just you wait. He's going to go off the deep end and it ain't going to be pretty. In fact, I doubt he ever bounces back.'_ The words had worried her and set her perpetually ill at ease, yet what she saw now frightened her more than the collective murmurs of his men.

Sandor was unreachable. It was as if she were looking at him through glass, seeing him plain as day, but knowing the futility of trying to reach him now. He was too far away, too far gone. He had slipped away to some secret place within himself, a place where he could be alone in his suffering. Sansa wanted to follow him there, but she did not know the way, and even if she did, the darkness he found himself in now could easily consume her as well.

Doubtless, he had seen the tears in her eyes, yet he remained taciturn and stared at her vacantly before settling his gaze elsewhere. Seemingly manifesting from thin air, the blonde haired woman hesitantly approached him, although her eyes narrowed onto him with a lascivious intensity. When she fell in by his side, Sansa watched as the woman lightly rested her hand on Sandor's bicep and lifted herself on her toes to whisper something in his ear. The woman suddenly donned a sympathetic gaze as Sandor settled his eyes towards her and nodded his head solemnly in reply to whatever the woman had said, his countenance rigid and enduring in its impassivity.

 _Perhaps that's how he is occupying his time._ Sansa's cheeks flushed with warmth as the thought invaded her mind, disturbing what small semblance of calm she had found in the past days and creating a wake of turbulent ruminations on the matter. However, the thoughts were quickly replaced with shame: shame at how she had acted towards him and shame at how somewhere within her she felt the smolder of jealousy rising even though she had spurned the man.

"My dear," a voice resonated next to her. Turning her head, Sansa found Alberto Moriarti had quietly approached her, consternation coloring the aged features of his face. "I had wondered if you would do me the pleasure of riding back with me."

The man's eyes steadied on her, although not in an unkind manner, but adamant nonetheless. It was clear the man would not be taking no for answer even though Sansa was not disposed to refuse him. She hardly knew the man. To her right, Zulu shifted on his feet, and for a fleeting moment, Moriarti's gaze shifted to the boy. Whatever unspoken words passed between them prompted Zulu to bid both Moriarti and Sansa farewell before he strode off towards the row of vehicles parked along the cemetery road.

"Yes, thank you," Sansa finally replied after Zulu had left. "I would like that very much."

Offering Sansa his arm for purchase, Moriarti led the way from Thomas' funeral plot in slow, purposeful steps. The man was dressed in a fine suit, the fabric feeling silken beneath Sansa's fingers as she took his arm. He smelled faintly like cigar smoke and Old Spice or something like it - something overtly masculine yet defying his age.

"I had hoped to seek you out sooner," Alberto intoned on a velveteen voice, smooth and pleasing in the way the words flowed from his lips. "These past few days have been rather hectic, as you can imagine."

Sansa nodded by way of reply as she focused her steps down the hill towards the road below, careful not to twist her ankle on divots in the ground.

"How are you holding up, Sansa?" Alberto inquired quizzically after a bit of silence had passed between them.

"I'm fine. Thank you," Sansa responded, a bit too quickly she realized after she said the words.

Alberto seemed to notice as he led her towards an S-class Mercedes and opened the back door for her. Sansa settled into the spacious backseat and watched as Moriarti circled around, climbing in to sit in the space next to her. The driver of the vehicle remained silent, the only sound filling the car the voice of a sports commentator murmuring through the speakers at a low volume.

Moriarti leveled a stare at Sansa before speaking again, his voice deliberate once more, but not ungentle.

"I want you to speak freely with me, dear girl," Alberto urged. "I asked because I truly want to know, not because I wish to make small talk."

The sincerity she found in his voice was what beckoned Sansa to settle her gaze on the man, and when she did, she found the same measure of sincerity peering through his tired eyes. Much like the rest of him, the man's eyes seemed to have grayed a bit with time and age, perhaps even sorrow, too, if she was reading him correctly.

"It's been difficult," Sansa offered truthfully before letting her lips curl into the faintest of smiles. "Zulu has been very kind to me, though."

The man did not answer, but instead continued to study her. He seemed to have not heard the words she spoke, but instead took to weighing whatever it was he saw in her demeanor. After another heady interruption of silence, Moriarti spoke.

"I suspect you hold yourself partially responsible for what happened." His words came artless and even.

Tilting her head, Sansa now found it was she who was studying him. She wanted to be wary and vigilant with what she told him. Her eyes sought out traces of malice on his part. Perhaps this was a trap of some kind; he would allow her to tie herself up in knots over her own words, effectually entrapping herself so he wouldn't have to. Yet, when she looked upon him, Sansa found him to be ingenuous and staring placidly at her.

"I know about Vinny and what you overheard," Alberto spoke again when Sansa let the conversation fall silent once more.

 _Zulu told him. Alberto is well aware that Zulu spends his time with me._ The unspoken exchange between Zulu and Alberto no longer seemed inconsequential in Sansa's mind. Letting her eyes fall to her hands in her lap, Sansa realized now what this was about. Perhaps she did have a part to play in what had happened; not intentionally, of course, but others had paid the price for her silence.

Cold and bony hands encircled her own as Alberto's fingers clasped her gingerly.

"My darling girl, none of this is your fault, and if anyone - made men, the women, anyone - tries to convince you otherwise, I want you tell me."

Hardly believing the words she had just heard, Sansa lifted an incredulous stare towards the man and found, once more, genuineness in the way he regarded her.

"If I had said something, though, maybe -"

"Maybe this wouldn't have happened?" Moriarti interjected abruptly. "If someone wanted you and Sandor dead, they would have made it happen, regardless. I know how these things work. If you had said something, perhaps things would not have worked out the way they did. Perhaps you would not have landed in the hands of inexperienced hit men, men who botched the job, and in effect, saved you and Sandor from a certain death."

Sansa hadn't considered that notion. It seemed to her that much of what had transpired could have been prevented if she had revealed what she had heard from Vinny. Of course, it was more complicated than that, yet the worries still lingered in the back of her mind.

"What about Mirabelle and Thomas?" she queried on something like a whisper, fearful now for what the answer might be.

"No, Sansa," Alberto asserted without so much as a cadence of breath. "That is not your burden to bear, sweet girl. I'm afraid that their demise was inevitable as much as it was planned."

Nodding her head, Sansa felt tendrils of relief spread through her, and a bit of the tension she had held onto for the past few days seemed to flee. She wondered, though, if Sandor saw things that way. Certainly if Alberto knew about her conversation with Vinny, Sandor must too, and perhaps he now blamed her for what happened to Mirabelle. Gazing out the window, she saw that Sandor was retreating from Thomas' funeral plot now, the blonde woman giggling at his side, although he remained stoic as ever.

"A woman by the name of Josephine will be coming to you today," Moriarti broke in, a savior to the heaviness of Sansa's thoughts. "I've instructed her to take your measurements, inquire about your favorite colors and styles of dress, and to purchase clothing, under garments, shoes, and whatever else your heart desires. While you are staying with us, you shall have your own belongings. It is unseemly for you to have to wear a dead woman's clothing."

Returning her gaze back to Alberto, Sansa allowed a smile to form on her lips.

"Thank you, Mr. Moriarti. That is very kind and thoughtful of you. I appreciate it very much."

The man returned her smile and chuckled in satisfaction at her response. His mirth was short lived and replaced with a somberness Sansa couldn't quite place in him.

"You want to go home, don't you?" he inquired forthrightly and with an unequivocal sense of growing concern.

Biting her bottom lip, Sansa measured her words, although not entirely sure why she felt the need to do so. It had little to do with residual cautiousness towards Alberto. Of course, she wanted to go home. However, the answer to the question was no longer as simple as it used to be.

"I want to see my father again," she answered honestly. "I want him to know that I'm okay and taken care of."

"Taken care of," Moriarti scoffed on an exhaled breath. "You've been kidnapped twice, once by a psychopath who battered you mercilessly and once by Sandor's brother who would have done god-knows-what to you. And that's not including the attempted kidnapping in Vegas. You survived a car accident and a botched hit. I'd hardly say you've been taken care of."

"I'm sorry," Sansa began, feeling as though she may have offended the man in some way and more than a bit startled by the fissures in his normally serene demeanor. "I didn't mean to -"

"There is no need for you to apologize, Ms. Stark," Alberto interjected, sensing a bit of Sansa's distress. "I only meant to say that this has all gotten out of hand. I should have stepped in sooner. After the incident at the Royce party, I was there when Sandor gave the orders to have you retrieved and brought to him. I didn't question him, although I didn't quite understand what use he had for the district attorney's daughter. Of course, now I find that situation, terrifying as it may have been for you, serendipitous nonetheless."

"Serendipitous because Sandor sending Leon after me ultimately saved my life," Sansa responded almost automatically and with a mindless nod of the head.  _I would've been dead four times over if it weren't for him._ After nights spent lying awake in bed, Sansa had reached that conclusion fairly quickly and cursed herself for not understanding that sooner.

"In a word, yes," Alberto continued. "Your reason for coming here in the first place and for still being here now is because your protection is of the utmost importance to him. However, his desire to protect you has translated into keeping you close to him and not letting you out of his sight. While I can understand his reasons for doing this, it has also put you in danger as well."

Sansa toiled over his words, not quite understanding what the man was getting at. Was she supposed to stay away from Sandor and not let him near her in case it might put her in danger again? Alberto himself had, only moments ago, said that if someone wanted to hurt her or Sandor, they would find a way. If that were the case, she was safer with him than not.

"Vinny told me I need to be a stand up girl. I know what he meant, Mr. Moriarti," Sansa spoke as she leveled a stare at the man, her eyes searching his in earnest. "Even if I am to go home, my father will want to know what happened, both as my dad and as the district attorney. I know what will happen to me if I say anything to him or anyone else about what has happened and what I've seen regarding your organization."

"My role is to advise Sandor. I no longer make decisions about the goings-on of the organization. I simply give my input," the man responded without missing a beat. It was clear enough he was skirting around the issue.

"And what would you advise in that situation, Mr. Moriarti? A situation where I'm a liability to the organization?" Sansa asked before glancing out the window. Sandor and the blonde haired bimbo had made it down the hill and were now climbing into a car together. She felt her stomach lurch at the sight, but held her composure.

Averting her eyes back towards Moriarti, Sansa found that he had followed her stare out the window and had observed what had captured her attention. She didn't doubt that he had somehow puzzled out her reaction to it as well.

"I would remind him that we look out for our own, but you  _are_  one of our own, Ms. Stark. Whether you see it that way or not, you are a part of us now. My only wish is that you begin to understand that. You aren't our prisoner or hostage. For all intents and purposes, Sandor is the King of this organization, and he wants you to be his Queen. Despite all that has transpired, the Moriarti family has protected you from the true monsters who wish you harm. We have accepted you as one of our own, and we take care of our family."

Moriarti was staring levelly at Sansa now, his eyes boring into her as if to make sure his words stuck.  _He wants you to be his Queen._ There was something powerful not only in those words, but in the way Alberto had spoken them. Try as she might, Sansa could not dismiss their implications or the weight which they carried with them.

"I've known Sandor since he was younger than you are now," Alberto continued. "I've watched him make mistakes, prevail, falter, triumph, and now suffer. The night you left with Nestor Royce, I knew he felt things for you he hadn't felt before, not for anyone or anything. He never said as much, but I know him well enough to know the affect you've have on him."

Sansa couldn't quite tell if there was something accusatory in his voice or if his resolve was simply fracturing. Regardless, he seemed somber now, and his words came less assured.

"Why are you telling me this, Mr. Moriarti?" Sansa asked, her voice sounding childlike and small as it caught in her throat.

"You've changed something in him, Sansa. You've made him a better man, and now I fear for that man. I fear that he cannot be saved, not from himself at least."

Moriarti no longer met her eyes, but instead had dropped his stare to his lap, and his breaths seemed to come deep and labored. His somberness seemed to have found its place, and Sansa understood that the fear he had just spoken of was real.

The fear she saw in Alberto Moriarti conjured up Sansa's own realization at what he was saying, or rather, asking of her.  _'Save him. Bring him back,'_ he might as well have said. That was the subtext to his words, the silent plea which he was too proud to vocalize plainly.

Sansa said nothing as the car slowly pulled forward and meandered through the cemetery.

 _I will be strong. For him and for me, I will be strong,_ she thought as she stared out the window in silence.

* * *

The blonde was sitting in the passenger seat of his car, lipstick staining the cigarette on which she was taking delicate pulls and releasing through pouted lips - an illusion to make them appear bigger than what they were, as if the collagen wasn't enough.

"You want one?" she asked, smoke billowing from her mouth and her eyebrow cocked suggestively. He had been staring at her and not in the way she probably hoped. Although she came around every so often and let him fuck her into the ground any which way he pleased, Sandor still wasn't quite sure he knew her name. Rebecca? Rachel? It didn't matter to him anyway.

"No," Sandor responded curtly, his eyes drifting back towards the road ahead.

"Suit yourself," the woman replied with a shrug of the shoulders while dangling the cigarette out the window to ash it.

That was the extent of their conversation on the drive back to Moriarti's. Neither of them seemed interested in small talk, and for that, Sandor was thankful. He didn't know if he could stomach the obligatory question and answer session consisting of what each of them had been up to for the past few months since their last encounter. It was rather obvious what had been transpiring in Sandor's life, and that didn't require discussion. Furthermore, he didn't care how this woman spent her time, no more than he cared to find out what her name was.

When he saw her sauntering up to him after Thomas' funeral, Sandor knew immediately what she was after. She sure as shit wasn't there to pay her respects to a man she hardly knew. When she had all but spread her legs for him right in front of Thomas' casket, Sandor understood what she was offering him and that she was offering it to him  _now_ , no strings attached. She had murmured something about being sorry for his loss into his ear, although he saw through that quick enough. She wasn't sorry for shit. She was sorry she hadn't come around sooner to let him fuck her.

She had told him she needed a ride, the innuendo transparent as she had licked her bottom lip and measured his reaction with a sultry gaze. Her shit-for-brains friends had conveniently bailed on her, leaving her stranded to find her own way back to wherever it was she had come from.

Parked in the half-circle drive of Moriarti's, Sandor sat silently as he turned the car off and pulled the key from the ignition. They were the first to arrive back here. Sandor had made sure of that and only now took the time to acknowledge why it had been so important in the first place. The last thing he needed, or wanted for that matter, was for Sansa to see him taking this broad to bed. It was pathetic, and he knew it; Sansa had already made it quite clear she wanted nothing to do with him, and yet here he was, trying to shield her from what he was about to do.

Before he could agonize over it any further, the woman's hand was massaging small circles at the back of his neck and she had turned to face him, leaning forward slightly so that her tits were spilling out over the top of her low cut dress.

"Come on," she whispered in his ear, her tongue flickering warmly against his ear lobe. "Let's get you inside."

Lifting his eyes, Sandor stared in the rear view mirror. Although the drive was empty now, it wouldn't be that way for much longer. Sandor gave a slight nod of his head and slowly removed himself from the car. Taking his hand with her face beaming in devious delight, the blonde led the way inside, waggling her ass as he followed her up the stairs and down the hall to his bedroom.

He had thought the gnawing anxiety he felt might cease as soon as their indiscretion could be safely hidden behind closed doors. Instead, Sandor felt it intensify at his core, proliferating in the pit of his stomach and making him nauseous despite being sober for the first time in days. The blonde tossed her purse on his nightstand and settled herself on the edge of his bed, patting the spot next to her before pulling the straps of her dress down over her shoulders.

Once more, Sandor found himself staring at her. He had once found her attractive back when her hair was a natural shade of brown, her skin was less orange, and her tits, although smaller then, didn't look like misshapen bean bags. Now, she was a run down version of what she used to be, which even back then wasn't anything to write home about.  _You're not Sansa,_ he thought with a shake of the head before closing his eyes, hiding in the darkness and hoping the woman might be gone when he opened them.

When he did reopen his eyes, the woman was up from the bed and pacing towards him in slow, purposeful steps. Standing in front of him, she pushed her dress down over the swell of her breasts and the curve of her hips, letting it pool at her feet before stepping forward to press against him. Although she stared up at him with lust flashing wild in her gaze, Sandor couldn't look at her. Even something as simple as eye contact in this moment seemed too intimate, and intimacy with this woman would be the ultimate sacrilege against Sansa, the insult to injury.

He tried in earnest to push the thoughts of Sansa away.  _The girl doesn't want you anymore. You don't owe her anything,_ he tried to , there would be nothing intimate about this. It was sex and nothing more. He would push the blonde, whatever her name was, down into the bed and pound her from behind until he felt the pressure and sweetness of his own release come in bursts. Afterwards, he would throw her out much like he always did. Besides, Sandor had drunk himself into a stupor the past four days, and that hadn't been enough to keep him together. He reckoned he needed to fuck.

He had thought to go to Sansa, but something told him to fight the urge to sneak into her bedroom at night. She was too delicate, too pure. Even in a half-maddened state of mind, Sandor knew better than to sully the only beautiful thing left in his life. He knew he would end up hurting her, destroying what little grace he had retained in her eyes, if any. However, he wasn't delusional enough to actually think he'd be sparing Sansa by fucking this broad. If anything, it would only hurt her worse.

Seeing her today had felt like a punch to the gut. She was a vision, as she always was, but in the days he had spent without her, Sandor had somehow diminished her beauty in his mind, perhaps as a way to make the loss of her easier to cope with. She had looked at him, not with the icy reserve and disgusted disappointment as she had before, but with sympathy and concern he had never expected to see in her again. It would have been easier for her to despise him. He could have let her go and understood she was better off that way, but her external beauty was not the only thing Sandor had diminished in their time apart. He had underestimated her ability to forgive, her penchant for sympathy and understanding in others, and the tremendous light that existed within her, the one which seemed to illuminate everything with her grace and purity of heart. Sansa Stark was stunning, inside as well as out, and Sandor felt ashamed to have, even momentarily and in miniscule amounts, forgotten any of this.

With an insistent tug, the blonde was pulling him towards the bed, and Sandor found he was now following her lead. He put up no fight as she unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it open. He gave no signs of protest as she pushed him back on the bed and straddled him while removing her pink, lacy bra. Grinding against his half-hardened cock, the woman guided his hands to cup her breasts.

"That's right. Isn't that nice?" the woman moaned as she unbuckled his belt and slid her hand down his pants to cup his package.

Leaning forward, she went to kiss him, but Sandor abruptly turned his head away so that her lips landed awkwardly on his cheek. For a moment, the woman froze in what he imagined was disbelief and affront. Rising slowly as she pulled her hand free from his pants, the blonde glared at him with her eyes hardening to frustration and disappointment.

"What's wrong?" she demanded with a huff, settling her hands on her hips.

_You're not Sansa._

Although he didn't say it out loud, the woman nodded her head as if she had heard him anyway. Lifting herself from off of his lap, she plopped down next to him, seemingly perplexed that any man might reject her in this way.

Pushing himself to the edge of the bed, Sandor rested his head in his hands while his elbows rested on his knees.  _Fucking hell, I can't do this. I can't._

The woman would be pissed, no doubt about that, but she would get over it. She'd set her sights on one of his other men, and they would take the bait, maybe even making her a goomah after a while. For Sansa, though, this would be unforgivable, and Sandor knew it would be something she wouldn't likely get over so easily. An empty release with this broad wasn't worth the heaps of damage control that would need to be done. With what little was left between him and Sansa, he had the choice to save it or destroy it. He had chosen to save it, and she had thrown it, quite literally, back in his face. Regardless, he couldn't bring himself to hurt her in this way.

Sandor turned towards the woman, ready and resolved to tell her to put her clothes on and leave. With the curtains drawn shut, her chest was a moving shadow in the dimness of his room, rising and falling rhythmically as she ran one of her hands through the strands of her straw-like hair.

Lying on her side, head propped up in her hand, she was facing him and clearly showcasing her half-naked body, for all the good it did. Before he could say anything, she slinked her arm across the bed and narrowed her eyes, drunk with desire, at him. With her other hand, the woman pushed her panties halfway down her thighs and reached between her legs to rub circles over her swollen clit, soft moans mingling with the slick sounds of her wetness.

"Mmm, I was hoping you would give me a hand," she purred, her voice husky and dark. "And maybe even more than that."

Although her eyes had fluttered closed as she continued the ministrations between her legs, Sandor glowered at her, feeling the heat in his blood rising and not with lust, as she so clearly hoped it would be.

"I'm not giving you shit. Get dressed and go. I won't tell you twice," he grumbled as he pushed himself from the bed and paced across the room to retrieve the half-empty whiskey bottle on his dresser. Facing a large mirror adjacent to the dresser, Sandor could see the reflection of the woman glaring at him as she abruptly sat up, her eyes glazing over with anger as her naked chest heaved.

"Fuck you!" she shouted and immediately scrambled from the bed. Rolling his eyes, Sandor took a swig from the bottle of Johnnie Walker and waited for her to leave. He could see the woman shuffling across the room with obvious agitation, snatching up the pieces of her clothing as she went.

"Your dick has gone as soft as you have," she seethed as she put on her bra with an unattractive scowl painted across her face. "You were always a lousy fucking lay anyhow," she continued beneath her breath, although Sandor heard her just fine.

Inhaling deeply, Sandor felt his anger slowly rising, boiling his blood as it coursed through his veins. She was playing at a dangerous game. He had been waiting for a release of all his anger towards the world, ready to uncage the beast that roamed restless within him.

Turning towards the woman now, Sandor felt his fingers curl into a tight fist. She was still ranting as she pulled her dress over her head and then stopped her movements abruptly after pulling it down over her breasts. Even in the haziness of light, Sandor could see the scornful smile playing across her lips.

"It's that tart, isn't it? That red-headed girl?" she all but snarled at Sandor, both hands on her bony hips as she apparently waited for a response. The bitch would have to get used to disappointment. She wasn't getting an answer from him, no more than she was getting an orgasm.

Throwing her head back, the woman burst into mocking laughter before speaking once more.

"What is she? Twelve? You mean to tell me you've got yourself all tied up into knots over some fucking teenage girl. Does she even know what to do with your dick?"

In two long strides, Sandor was in front of the woman, the fingers of his free hand wrapping tightly around her upper arm. Ignoring her squeals of pain, Sandor lowered his face in front of hers until his eyes - irate as he fumed - were at a level with hers.

"Get the  _fuck_ out," he growled in her face as she squirmed feebly within his grasp. Pushing her backwards away from him, the woman stumbled to the ground with a whimper. When she regained herself and stood up, she scrambled for her purse on the nightstand.

"Enjoy your twelve-year-old girl hand jobs, you fucking sick piece of shit. When you want a real woman to fuck, give me a call," she taunted bitterly as she blew him a kiss. "I'll be sure to tell the little tart you send your regards," she added over her shoulder before scurrying towards the door, implicitly understanding exactly how to burrow beneath his skin and ignite his anger.

The thought of this woman being anywhere near Sansa sent shockwaves of rage pulsing through Sandor's being, his vision blurring to a red haze and rendering him incoherent as he was on the woman faster than she could make it to the door. Grabbing her by the hair, Sandor dragged her back to the bed and wrapped both of his hands around her throat, pressing her into the mattress with his weight on top of her.

Sandor squeezed his hands tight around her throat and watched as the woman's eyes widened in terror. With soft choking sounds, the woman's mouth fell open, although it was clear she was gaining no breath in doing so. Even as her fists beat against his chest, Sandor continued to squeeze, relishing the feel of the bones at the back of her neck popping with the steady force. His singular focus was on hurting her. Somehow, he had convinced himself that watching the light leave her eyes would take it all away: pain, confusion, rage, suffering. It would all flee him if he slowly squeezed the life out of the woman beneath him, the woman whose name he didn't even know. Her death would sanctify his life, purging it of all his afflictions.

And so Sandor kept squeezing, watching intently and with some sort of sick fascination at how the woman's fight for her life was slowly becoming weaker with each passing moment. Eventually, her eyes softened a bit, and her fists fell to her side.  _You'll kill her if you don't stop,_ a voice sounded from somewhere in the back of his mind, delicately piercing through the deliberateness of what he had tasked himself to do. As if his movements were dictated by some force outside himself, Sandor released his hands from the woman's neck and let his weight fall to the floor, reeling as he went. The woman gulped down air with an almost violent sort of urgency, grasping at her chest as she began to sob.

"Get out! Get the fuck out," Sandor bellowed, his mind racing with images of Mirabelle's near-mutilated body and broken face. His hands were trembling, and he barely took notice as the woman fled from the room with tears streaming down her face.

For a moment, infinitesimal as it was, Sandor understood the pleasure Gregor took in watching someone die. In that fleeting moment, he wanted to inflict pain and feasted on the fear he saw pooling in the woman's dying eyes. He would have kept going if not for the manifestation of that part of himself which separated him from his brother.  _You'll kill her if you don't stop_ , the voice had said. It was the same voice that had stopped him from putting a bullet in E.Z.'s head.

Sandor doubted very much that Gregor had this same internal voice of conscience. However, that thread of humanity which separated the Clegane brothers was thinning. Sandor feared the day it would snap and he and Gregor would be brothers for true - akin in blood, violence, and a shared monstrosity.

Sandor had killed people before and made jests that it was the sweetest satisfaction to wield a weapon and condemn someone, anyone, to die. Buried beneath those words, though, was a man who venerated life. Death by his hand had only been a means to various ends, chief among them an outlet for the incessant plague of fury that had burdened him for so long. If he could wish away that anger, find the ultimate antidote, he would, and perhaps he could leave behind the constant need to manage and maintain the affliction of wrath.

Sandor felt his stomach churn, although its contents were limited. As the visions of Mirabelle returned to him now, Sandor scrambled across the floor on hands and knees towards the liquor bottle, the contents of which had partially spilled out onto the carpet. With trembling hands, he brought the bottle to his lips and took greedy pulls until he had emptied the bottle. Tossing it aside, he crawled into his bed, his body swaying slightly with inebriation as he went.

Closing his eyes, he saw her again. He could almost hear her voice. Sandor clutched at the sheets of his bed, fisting the fabric as he gritted his teeth.  _Make it stop. Make it fucking stop._ Over and over, he pleaded in his head, writhing against the sheets and twisting them about his body as he endured the images of his sister. He waited in torment until the alcohol settled in his blood, and he eventually fell into the darkness behind his eyes.

He never quite dreamed of her. The visions he saw behind his eyes were not fully fledged in the way that dreams were. He did not find himself in places he once knew, carrying on conversations as he might in his waking life. Instead, what haunted him in the hours spent in unconsciousness was emptier but no less horrifying. He saw his sister in the darkness, and she was always younger. Mirabelle had grown into a woman, but within her was always a child - lost, scared, and alone.  _'You failed me. I needed you,'_ she would cry in tears of thick crimson, her life's blood. Even if he never saw her face, he always heard the words she spoke and understood they were true.

During the days, he stewed on those words, letting them fester and rot within him, and they poisoned his conscious mind. He thought to somehow escape them in sleep or in a drunken stupor, and for awhile that had been sufficient. But now those thoughts seeped into the time he spent drifting in the blackened abyss behind his eyes. They took on a life of their own and proliferated when he abandoned them by distracting himself. Always they waited until he fell asleep once more, and they came back with a fury.  _'You failed her. She needed you and you failed her. Look what you did.'_

The taunts grew worse and more verbose, abusive perhaps, as the nights and days wore on. With them now came the image of Mirabelle in her death - bloody and no longer beautiful, a mess of gore. Her corpse spoke to him, still crying those tears of blood, but it was her voice speaking to him always. She said awful things to him, words which absorbed into his very soul, so that he may carry them with him to his own grave. He drank to drown them away, and the more he drank, the worse those words became until he'd awake gasping for breath and clinging to the empty space next to him.

A few times he had awoken calling for Sansa, certain that he was screaming her name. Instead, he found her name coming from his lips as a whisper, his throat dry and his tongue barely able to form the syllables needed to call out to her. She wouldn't come anyway, he had told himself. He had failed her too. Now with that realization, her voice joined the choir in his nights of torment. She, too, reminded him of his failures and how she wanted nothing from him, not anymore. From somewhere high above, Sansa Stark perched herself just out of his reach, a little bird singing a song of his undoing.

When a gentle nudging came, saving him from his sleep, Sandor found himself in complete darkness, the sun having long since set. He wasn't quite sure what day it was. It wouldn't have surprised him to find that he had slept through several days undisturbed yet feeling hardly rested.

"Boss," a whisper met his ear. "Boss, wake up."

Sandor grumbled in response, his head pounding and his limbs stiff as he tried in vain to stretch.

"Leave me the fuck alone," he managed on a dry rasp before reaching through the darkness towards his night stand drawer and the gun tucked inside.

"Alberto requested you in the lounge. It's important," the voice spoke again, sounding like Go-Go if Sandor had to place it.

"He can handle it without me. Now get the fuck out of here. I could have blown your brains out and still have half a mind to anyway."

Sandor brought a hand up to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. Right now, a fistful of aspirin would do quite nice with a bottle of Jack Daniels. With his eyes adjusting to the darkness, Sandor could see Go-Go's form still hovering next to the edge of the bed, shifting ever so slightly from side to side as he prepared himself to stand his ground.

"It's about the guy who attempted the hit on you and Sansa, the one you kept alive. We're starting to get him to talk. Alberto didn't think it'd be right to exclude you from this particular…activity."

Fully roused, Sandor propped himself up on his elbows and sucked in a deep breath. He had forgotten about that man. Somehow, that particular incident had been trumped in his mind, no longer seeming important. However, he knew there was a definite and probable possibility that his and Sansa's attempted hit was connected to what happened to Mirabelle, Thomas, and Vinny. The problem was he hadn't been sober or in his right mind long enough to contemplate the matter.

Sandor sat up with a groan and threw his legs over the side of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and running both hands over his face until his head stopped spinning.

"Alright. I'll be down there in a second," Sandor growled before getting up and retrieving a fresh T-shirt from his drawer. Apparently satisfied by Sandor's compliance, Go-Go retreated from the room as Sandor slipped on a pair of shoes and pulled his hair back from his face. Even without looking in the mirror, he knew with a certainty he looked like shit, and with even more certainty, he knew he didn't give a fuck.

As he retreated from his bedroom, Sandor could tell it was late. The house was eerily quiet and cast in shadows, the light of a pale full moon pouring in through the windows. Working his way down the stairs and through the kitchen, Sandor caught a glimpse of the time. It was a half past one in the morning. When Sandor approached the door which led to the basement, he felt his body tense. He had hardly spoken to anyone in the past four days, only Alberto when the old man came to inquire about Mirabelle's funeral arrangements.

 _'I will happily take care of the arrangements, but I thought to seek out your input, if you wish to contribute it. Though, I can understand if it's too painful.'_ The old man had come to him in a fleeting moment where Sandor was coming down off of one hangover and about to commence his next binge.

 _'Make it beautiful for her. I don't fucking care what it costs, just make it beautiful,'_ was all Sandor had said, the conversation, short as it was, enough to make him spiral into a deeper circle of hell than the one he had previously been in.

Retreating down the steps, Sandor could hear the pained squeals of a man.  _The sounds of interrogation._ He was happy his men didn't wait for him to start the process of questioning the fucker. He didn't quite know he had the patience to endure the back and forth of an interrogation, the gradual breaking of someone's will through threats and torture.

As he pushed through the door at the bottom of the steps and stepped into the dimly lit open area of the lounge, the din of the room quieted to hushed murmurs. A dozen or so men were present, all capos with the exception of Alberto who stood in the back of the room. Even in the low light, Sandor could see how some of them paled, eyes widening slightly at the sight of him. Surely, he looked like the dead resurrected, and as such, many appeared as if they were seeing a ghost.

The man that had been kept alive was bound to a chair, blood caked around the corners of his mouth and running down his chin in steams. A handful of his teeth were scattered about the floor. As he shifted a petrified stare towards him, Sandor could see that one of his eyes was swollen shut and was seeping fluid, tears maybe. Upon seeing Sandor looming within the room, the man squeezed his good eye shut and began murmuring pleas as he writhed within the chair.

Situated in front of the bound man was Dorin, a man only a few years old than Sandor who was known for his peculiar eccentricities of the macabre sort. Of average build and a shorter than average height, the man held a quiet, reserved demeanor, speaking only when necessary and when he felt he had something meaningful to contribute to the conversation. The rest of the time he seemed to observe his surroundings, intuiting things no one else seemed to pick up on. Beyond that, he had a penchant and talent for mind fucking people. Although only an associate of the Moriarti, he was ruthless, had a stomach for torture, and therefore was the go-to man for interrogations. He understood how to read people, get into their heads, figure out what made them tick and what made them talk. When that wasn't enough, he'd use force, whatever force necessary. The man wasn't a brute, but he sure as hell knew how to make people sing the truth.

As Sandor walked closer, he could see the bound man's cock and balls were hanging out of his pants, his scrotum having been sliced down the middle with a fine cut. Sandor winced at the sight while Dorin smiled, pleased at his work. Clearly, Dorin had puzzled out this man's most prized possession, the thing he would not part with and the thing that would make him talk if threatened.

"Open your eyes and watch death approach you," Dorin spoke on an even toned voice, one which held the remnants of an accent Sandor was not familiar with, although he knew it wasn't Italian. Bewitched or something of the sort, the bound man obeyed and looked up at Sandor with a flush of terror pooling in his good eye. Dorin smiled once more before craning his head up towards Sandor.

"This man has much to tell. I can see it in him," Dorin intoned, sending a chill up Sandor's spine. He trusted Dorin, but there was something unsettling about the man. It was as if he knew everyone's secrets just by looking at them and saw things no one should be privy to. Finding himself growing increasingly uncomfortable, he looked away.

Shifting to the side so that Sandor could crouch before the man, Dorin slipped the blade of his small knife beneath the bound man's scrotum at the base of his cock, the silent threat hanging over his blade. The man whimpered at that, tears streaming down his cheeks as he once more squeezed his eyes shut.

"Speak the truth," Dorin whispered in the man's ear. "Sandor Clegane and I share a common talent for sniffing out lies. You wouldn't want to be caught telling one."

The bound man sucked in a shaky breath, and his lips moved, but no words came out, only soft gurgling sounds as if all that he wished to speak died in his throat.

"Speak," Dorin hissed as he pushed the knife harder against the man's ball sack.

"Who do you work for? The Severelli?" Sandor demanded before the man managed words.

"N-n-no," the man sputtered, fresh blood streaming from his lips. "One of y-your men hired me and my m-men for the job."

"Tell him who," Dorin snapped with agitation and annoyance growing in his normally tepid voice. The man opened his one eye and settled it on Sandor, an act meant to inspire some sort of mercy, although it was lost on Sandor.

"Vinny," he offered, his composure only fleetingly intact. "He gave me the details of the day, the direction you'd be traveling in, what car you drove, and what I was supposed to do with you and the girl. I swear I don't know anything else. He never said why he wanted you or the girl."

 _Vinny. No. Not Vinny._ Sandor felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him as he sat back on his knees. His interactions with Vinny had been strained in the days before everything went to shit, but nothing would have prepared him for the blow he felt by this sort of betrayal. Alberto seemed to stir behind him, sensing the burden he now felt. Vinny, the man he had once considered like a brother to him, was as good as dead now.

The bound man pressed his lips together and swallowed hard, his one-eyed stare imploring Sandor to find truth in his words. When Sandor did not reply right away, the man began to cry again, defeated sobs blubbering from his bloody lips.

"And what exactly were you supposed to do with me and the Stark girl?" Sandor growled after a long interruption of silence.

"Bring you to Moriarti's. He said someone else would take it from there. He didn't tell me who."

The man was a pitiful sight; he reeked of his own excrement and clearly had been scarcely fed since being here. Beyond that, he didn't quite understand where he was either.

Lowering his eyes as he worked over the man's words, Sandor silently shook his head as he remembered his conversation with Vinny on the car ride to the motel.  _'I don't know, boss. I would ask Marco, but no one's heard from him.'_ Sandor was willing to bet that Vinny had heard from Marco. The words he spoke had been too vitriolic, and the inclusion of Marco's name in that conversation was now raising red flags.  _We were all supposed to die. And Vinny was the one who set us up._

"What about Mirabelle?" Sandor seethed as he settled a murderous glare towards the bound man.

"I…I don't kn-know who that is," he stammered, clearly fearing what he saw stirring beneath Sandor's eyes.

"It's my fucking sister!" Sandor roared as he sprung to his feet and allowed his face to hover mere inches from the bound man's. "Did they tell you they were going to cut her open and bleed her out?"

With his eyes squeezed shut once more, the man frantically shook his head as the words came spewing out of his mouth which was contorted in fear and pain. Dorin was now pushing the blade harder up against the man's scrotum, blood trickling down his knife.

"No! P-p-please! I-I- I don't know anything about that. I was only supposed to bring you and the girl to Moriarti's. I don't know anything else. Please. I told you. I don't know."

"Did they tell you to fondle Sansa, or did you come up with that on your own?" Sandor raged, his breath coming in heaving bursts from his chest as he remembered the bound man's grimy hands roaming over Sansa's form.

The man let out a mewling sound as he sobbed once more. His mouth opened and closed, but he could not form his words. Instead, he continued to whimper.

Sandor turned towards Dorin who was staring intently at the man, his eyes narrowed in focus with his knife still poised in place.

"Take his cock and balls. He won't need either where he's going."

Dorin shifted his eyes, glistening and an eerie shade of green, up towards Sandor, his mouth curling ever so slightly at one corner before he slowly turned his stare back towards the bound man who began screaming and writhing within his bindings.

"NO! Please. Don't!" Sandor heard as he turned away to face Alberto. Two capos stepped forward to hold the man still as Dorin set in with his blade. The other men averted their eyes in equal measures of discomfort and disgust.

"As soon as Vinny comes to, we're paying him a visit," Sandor spoke loud enough for all to hear. Alberto solemnly nodded his head before casting Sandor a sympathetic gaze and disappearing towards the private alcove.

The bound man's piercing screams were stifled as he was gagged, but even still, his anguished moans and squeals filled the basement lounge. Turning around, Sandor saw the task had been completed, and Dorin was placidly wiping his blade in methodical strokes with a small terrycloth towel.

"Let him bleed out, and then clean up the mess," Sandor grumbled to no one in particular. Out of the periphery of his vision he saw a few of the men nod their heads in agreement.

As Sandor cast a glance around the room, he noticed for the first time that Bronn was not among them, the lack of his presence somehow alarming. He had thought to ask Alberto about it, but the old man was quietly smoking a cigar in the alcove and quite obviously adrift in his own thoughts. Sandor left the man to his cigar and thoughts and retreated upstairs. With each step, he felt the weight of exhaustion set in, although he had slept through most of the day and night. Before turning the corner from the kitchen to head towards the main stair case, his eyes were drawn towards the balcony outside the great room. It was there he saw Bronn outside, his forearms resting against the balcony railing and a trance-like stare cast out towards the desert unfolded in front of him.

For a moment, Sandor watched through the darkness, battling himself over whether or not to go to Bronn. Like all the others, Sandor had not sought him out and now felt a slow pang of guilt reverberate through him for having shunned Bronn. Clearly, the man was suffering just as much as he was, although at a different sort of loss.

With that thought, Sandor made his way out to the balcony and settled himself next to Bronn, who seemed hardly roused from his thoughts as Sandor stood by his side. Instead, Bronn stared off into the darkness of night, his hands cupping an object, although Sandor could not quite make out what it was.

In silence, they stood next to one another, neither saying a word. What was there to be said? Everything perhaps, but nothing because no words, no matter how heartfelt and sincere, would bring her back. And so they stood in silence.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sandor saw Bronn's hands open, and when he shifted his stare down to the object, Sandor saw a diamond ring encased in a small black box.

"I had been waiting for a time when you and I were alone to ask your permission to propose to her," Bronn finally spoke, matter-of-factly yet with grief lining his words.

Sandor sucked in a deep breath and slowly let his eyes close as the words washed over him. This was, undoubtedly, the insult to injury for Bronn. How long had the man been carrying around a ring, waiting for the right moment to solidify all that Mirabelle was to him? When he opened his eyes, he stared down at the ring - its delicate band of small, sparkling diamonds which offset a larger, square cut gem with its own perimeter of small diamonds. It was so distinctly "Mirabelle", and Sandor knew she would have loved it.

"I should have been with her," Bronn sniffled, his voice beginning to crack. "I knew I should have been with her. I'd probably be dead too, but I don't fucking care. At least, she wouldn't have been alone."

Sandor's mouth opened, but no words came. He didn't know how to comfort Bronn. He hardly knew how to manage his own grief, let alone someone else's. Sucking in a deep breath, Bronn tucked the ring back into his pocket and leveled his blood-shot eyes on Sandor.

"I want out," he declared flatly, his gaze never wavering.

"Bronn-" Sandor began as he shook his head, trying to understand the convoluted mess that was his life now. This was yet another punch to the gut.  _One right after the other._

"I'll help you find who did this, and we'll make them pay, but when it's done, I want out," Bronn interrupted before Sandor could continue.

Sandor felt his anger rising, although it was a petulant sort of anger. He couldn't truly blame Bronn for wanting to leave. However, he felt the sting of the man's words, and it came as a dull pain of abandonment. They were supposed to be in this together until the end. The man took oaths just like Sandor did, but it was just as much a promise to each other as it was to the organization. Neither of them had much family to call their own, so they were to be each other's family.

"What are you going to do?" Sandor queried curtly as he stared back at Bronn.

"I don't know and I don't care," Bronn shook his head. "I just want out." After a moment of silence passed between them, Bronn's eyes found Sandor's, and this time when he spoke, his words weren't so definitive. Instead, they seemed to be imploring Sandor and searching for reassurance.

"Don't you get sick of this shit?"

Sandor nodded in reply. Not a day passed where he didn't wonder why this was all worth it or if it was even worth it at all. He had carved out his niche in the world with blood and violence, feeding the beast of wrath within him while doing so. Whatever appeal it once had, however small, was fading, and yet Sandor had taken oaths, perhaps the only oaths he would ever take in his life. He couldn't leave and especially not now.

"If you need out, there's nothing I can do to stop you," Sandor replied, resigned as he acquiesced to what Bronn so clearly needed.

"No. There's not," the man quietly confirmed as his eyes wandered back to stare at the desert beyond.

"I would have said yes," Sandor conceded as he turned to face Bronn.

"What?" the man muttered, confusion cast upon his countenance.

"You asking Mirabelle to marry you, I would have said yes," Sandor spoke truthfully and without reserve. "You're a brother to me. You don't have to share my blood or marry into my family to be my brother."

Biting his bottom lip hard, Bronn nodded his head, blinking back the tears that were glistening in his eyes.

"I know, Sandor. I know," he exhaled as the tears finally broke free. In a rare moment of affection, the men embraced, their own connection solidified in their shared sorrow. Although it would pain him to see the man leave his life, Sandor would let him go if that was what Bronn needed. The unspoken oath of brotherhood between them seemed to trump the ritual oaths they both had made to the Moriarti organization.

* * *

Biting her bottom lip to keep it from pouting, Sansa stared at her misshapen cannolis. They hadn't fried up into nice cylindrical shapes like Carmelita's had, but instead, many had popped open, and now the filling was melting slightly out the ends in rivulets of ricotta. Still, they turned out better than the first batch she had attempted. Regardless, Zulu happily chomped on the salvageable cannolis while sitting at the counter, eager to devour the trials and errors of her efforts at authentic Italian cooking.

"Miss Sansa, your cannolis were fantastic as always," the boy declared with a contented smile as he stood up from his seat and dusted the crumbs from his lap.

Smiling in return, Sansa shook her head as Zulu moved behind her to dunk his plate into the sink full of hot, soapy water.

"You lie. They look like tacos," Sansa laughed as she cast a disappointed glance towards what was left of her confectionary monstrosities.

"Yeah, but they taste like cannolis, and that's all that matters," Zulu replied before tipping his head to her and jaunting off towards the basement to join up with the rest of the men.

Retying the strings of her apron and situating it in front of her new button down blouse and skirt, Sansa set about washing the few dishes which remained in the sink as the dishwasher hummed beside her.

In the days after Thomas' funeral, Sansa had continued to marinate on her conversation with Alberto, his words sinking in further and seeming more perplexing with each passing day. The man had spoken deliberately and measured his words carefully, yet it was his unspoken words which both confused and resonated with Sansa the most.  _'I fear that he cannot be saved, not from himself at least.'_ There was a warning behind those words, and if taken at face value, it would seem that Alberto was counseling Sansa to leave well enough alone when it came to Sandor. However, that certainly did not explain the silent pleading she had seen gleaming in Alberto's eyes; the way in which he had surrendered to helplessness and was imploring Sansa to help Sandor, if she could. Seemingly, he was a man at odds with himself.

It hadn't taken Sansa long to decipher that Zulu's continued presence was no coincidence. Her daily goings-on weren't so stimulating as to warrant the boy spending the vast majority of his time with her. She had deduced that someone, Alberto more than likely, had tasked him with keeping a watchful eye on her. Her initial thought was that she was being monitored closely perhaps as an evaluation of her trustworthiness, considering she had failed to inform on Vinny's phone conversation. When her questions about Sandor continued to go unanswered and when her requests to speak with him were rebuffed with a myriad of excuses, Sansa began to understand the purpose of it all. Zulu was meant to be a distraction for her, but board games and movie marathons could only occupy her for so long. Surely, Moriarti must understand that sooner or later Sansa would want to know what was going on with Sandor.

 _'Sandor is the King of this organization and he wants you to be his Queen,'_ Alberto had said. Not so long ago, Sansa would have been captivated by the whimsy of those words, enchanted into a picture-perfect fantasy where the Queen of Sandor Clegane's world would have the power to stop the madness and eradicate the darkness.

The girl in her wanted to be enraptured by those thoughts and swept up in the naïve fantasy. However, Moriarti's words held little power except in her own imagination. The power came with what she did with Alberto's counsel, and Sansa was surprised to find that she felt more empowered than anything. She was not a hostage here. That was plain to see. Furthermore, she wasn't just some random girl anymore, the district attorney's daughter, caught up in unfortunate circumstances and biding her time until she got to go home. Inexplicably, she was now a part of this too, forever marked by all she had experienced in her time under Sandor's protection. Others could like it or not, but Sandor had chosen Sansa, and she had chosen him too. The heart wants what it wants, and she would not go back on that now, not after all they had been through.

And perhaps that was the crux of all that Alberto had said to her. The man himself did not have all the answers and was visibly shaken to envision what lay ahead for all of them in the coming weeks and months. However, he did not abide by the belief that Sansa was powerless in all of this. If anything, he revered her ability to affect Sandor, for better or for worse, and was entreating her to rise to the occasion. Rise she did - emboldened and empowered to do what she could.

Sansa no longer cared if some of the made men sniggered at her or if their wives cut judgmental looks towards her. She was not content to melt away, defeated and despondent, by all that had happened.  _I can be strong. For him and for me, I can be strong._ Although Sandor had shut himself away, inaccessible even to Alberto, a day would come when he might need a bit of her strength, as she had once needed his, and it would do well for her to be there for him when that day came. Beyond that, there was surely something she could do instead of mope around with Zulu trailing after her.

With these thoughts in mind, Sansa had made her way into the kitchen and approached the eldest of the Italian mothers, a woman by the name of Carmelita who Sansa had met after Alonzo's passing. Traversing an apparent language barrier, Sansa had offered her company and help in the kitchen. With all the men coming and going, there was a small army to feed, and another set of hands would be welcome, or so Sansa suspected. Her suspicions had been correct, and Carmelita had warmly accepted Sansa into the kitchen, setting her immediately to work at the more menial tasks such as peeling and chopping vegetables.

It was a pleasant departure from the turbulence of Sansa's thoughts, and it helped to establish a sort of routine. Sansa listened as the Italian mother's bustled about, speaking half of the time in English and the other half in Italian. They had taught her a few phrases of their mother tongue each day and encouraged Sansa to practice as she rolled out pasta dough or tended to some other task. They even taught her their favorite Italian songs, old standards from pre-war Italy they had learned from their own mothers. At first, Sansa would sing along with them as she learned the words, but eventually their voices would fall away, and they would listen placidly and with tears hanging in their eyes as Sansa sang. She never quite understood what moved them to emotion but imagined it was the words she sang and perhaps the voice she sang them in.

Even Zulu would sit, seemingly mesmerized, as Sansa sang while she worked. Something in the way he looked at her had changed, and as soon as it did, Zulu began spending less time in the kitchen with her and more time with the other made men. At the end of the day, though, he would always come and join her for dinner, eager to gobble up whatever she had tried her hand at that day. Afterwards, he would engage her in shy conversation until he escorted her up to her bedroom where he would wish her a good night's rest before heading off to his own room.

Tonight would be different. Although Zulu hadn't out-and-out told her, Sansa deciphered the fact that the boy had been included in a meeting of Sandor's men. Whether Sandor himself invited Zulu or if it was Alberto, she did not know, but the boy had been positively glowing when he modestly informed Sansa that he would miss dinner with her because he had business to attend to. With the time nearing 9:00 pm as she finished the last of the dishes, Sansa planned on calling it an early evening anyway.

Carmelita fell in next to Sansa's side, picking up a dish and toweling it dry as she cast Sansa a knowing look.

"Sansa, you daydream of man you love," the woman ventured in slightly broken English.

Momentarily, Sansa thought that Carmelita misunderstood, that the woman had somehow mistaken her interactions with Zulu for something more than what they were. When she went to politely correct the woman, Sansa saw the sympathy gleaming in Carmelita's wizened eyes and knew that the woman was referring to Sandor.

"I can always tell when woman daydream of man she love because she most beautiful when daydream of this man," Carmelita continued as she tucked away the dry dishes into various cabinets and drawers.

The Italian mothers didn't miss much, and they had the tendency of filling their days with gossip. Surely, some of what they spoke in Italian had to do with her and Sandor. It was no secret by now that they were involved with one another.

"Thank you, Carmelita," Sansa replied with a soft smile and a shake of the head. "I'm just zoning out is all."

"Zoning out?" the woman repeated, mystified by the phrase if her confused expression was anything to go by.

"I was daydreaming," Sansa clarified with a giggle.

Resting her hands on Sansa's shoulders, Carmelita gave a gentle squeeze.

"He will come to you, tesoro. He will find way back to you."

Sansa bit her lip as she watched the woman upend a bowl of rising dough onto the floured surface of the countertop. Was it that obvious that Sandor was so far away from her, from everyone now, that even Carmelita could see it? Or maybe it was what she saw in Sansa that gave it away - the heartache at not being able to reach him even though he resided under the same roof as her, slept in the bedroom across the hall.

"I hear phrase that say,  _'A man heart is in his stomach,'_ " Carmelita added wistfully as she lifted her eyes to the ceiling in thought while kneading the dough.

"A way to a man's heart is through his stomach," Sansa corrected with a small laugh and a waning smile.

"Ah yes! You make lovely ossobuco, Sansa," Carmelita beamed as she dusted off her hands on her apron and walked towards the fridge. "You bring him ossobuco and he will daydream of you too." Without another word, Carmelita began pulling out containers of the left over braised veal shanks, gremolata, and risotto.

As the woman began piling a generous portion onto a plate and placed it in the microwave, Sansa felt her stomach begin to tie in knots.

"I don't know. I don't even know where to find him," Sansa protested, flustered and imagining that Sandor was undoubtedly in attendance at the same meeting Zulu had scurried off to. Certainly, she wasn't about to interrupt that.

With her nervousness growing more profound with each passing minute, Sansa watched as Carmelita delicately arranged the plate of food on a serving tray along with a half glass of merlot, a few of Sansa's misshapen cannolis, and the appropriate silverware.

"Go now, child. You find his heart," Carmelita urged as she handed Sansa the tray and shooed her out of the kitchen with a well-meaning smile.

For many moments, Sansa stood in the darkness of the foyer, wondering in which direction she was even supposed to go. Gasping, she realized she was standing in the same spot where Mirabelle's broken body had been laid out; the spot where Sandor and Bronn loomed over the woman's bloodied form with their anguish and devastation echoing throughout the foyer.

Terrified and suddenly feeling sick to her stomach, Sansa fled up the stairs as quickly as she could without spilling the contents of the tray, each of her steps careful yet hurried as she made her way towards the only place she could think of to seek Sandor out. If he wasn't with his men, he would likely be in his office. In her first days here, Sansa's curiosity had compelled her towards the third floor, seeking out whatever mysteries remained up there. She had careened into Sandor in the hallway and knew now that his office was on the third floor, although she still had never stepped foot in it.

Sansa sucked in a deep breath as she reached the third floor and made her way down the pitch black hallway towards the office at the end. It all felt forbidden, and perhaps that was what compelled her now to seek him out. And for the first time in a long time, she knew to fear him, and yet that intrinsic knowledge wasn't enough to force her to turn back. What she felt in her heart remained incongruous and at odds with the thoughts tumbling wild about her mind.

As she approached his office door, the dinnerware on the tray began to rattle in time with the shaking of her hands. Gripping it firmly in one arm, Sansa brought her other hand up to knock on the door, the softness of her rapping a product of her hesitation. When no answer came, Sansa thought to turn away and return to the kitchen. A part of her wished defeat in this particular endeavor, and she imagined the relief she might feel upon returning downstairs unsuccessful. Rather than turn away though, Sansa's hand - trembling and now clammy with a layer of sweat - reached for the door knob, and with only a gentle push, she was finding her way into the darkness of the office.

With the blinds of the windows behind Sandor's desk open, the light of the waning moon illuminated the room in soft light and guided her steps towards his desk. If anything, she could leave the tray along with a note and go. When he returned from his meeting, the food would undoubtedly be cold, but what it represented - a peace offering and something to lift his spirits - would remain intact. As she approached through the darkness, Sansa could see his chair was turned towards the window, and he was in it; the top of his head was visible over the back of the chair as it swiveled ever so slightly from left to right.

The beating of her heart in her own hears was deafening, and Sansa was certain he must hear it along with the clattering of the dishes on the tray. Both undoubtedly indicated he was not alone in the room, and yet he did not turn around to see her approaching.

"Sandor," Sansa finally managed, her voice sounding frightened and small. The swiveling of the chair stopped abruptly before slowly turning towards her. Sandor's form was nothing more than a silhouette, only certain aspects of his features visible in the dimness of light and the sight sending cold tremors through Sansa's body as she began to shake.

_You have to be strong. For him and for you, be strong._

Pulling in a deep breath and steadying her hands the best she could, Sansa carefully traversed the remaining distance and set the tray down on his desk, happy to be rid of the thing and amazed she hadn't dropped it.

"I thought you might be hungry, so I brought you something to eat," she informed nervously, wringing her hands together as she shifted uncomfortably from side to side. Even in the darkness, she knew he was staring at her. Unlike his shadowed form, she was cast in the lunar light pouring in through the window, her visage entirely visible to him. The unmistakable heaviness which accompanied the intensity of his stare pressed against her, stifling her breath until it came ragged through parted lips.

"Sansa," he murmured before holding out one hand to her. His voice was a weak rasp, languid and sounding frail. For anything about Sandor to seem frail was an odd thing, and to hear him thus was simultaneously disarming and perplexing. Sansa circled around his desk and came to stand in front of him as he turned his chair to meet her approach. Even from where she stood, Sansa could smell the alcohol on him, and when her eyes shifted towards his desk she saw a bottle of whiskey sitting next to a half-empty cocktail glass.

Sansa's attention was pulled back towards Sandor as his hands settled on her waist, and he coerced her towards him with a steady yet gentle force. Standing between his legs as he stared up at her, Sansa rested her hands on his shoulders, her fingers entwining in the strands of his hair.

"You should eat something," she all but whispered to him, her words a caress.

"Eat something," he scoffed on an exhaled breath.

Nestling his face against her stomach and breathing in deeply, Sandor began working his lips in soft kisses up towards the bareness of her chest afforded by her button down shirt. One of his hands settled at her cheek, and as he craned his neck up, Sandor urged her towards him until their lips met.

Unbidden, Sansa's lips parted for him as she wrapped her arms around his neck, soaking up the warmth of his embrace. His tongue worked in circles around hers, each pass tasting like whiskey and becoming more urgent than the last. Like a man starved, he feasted on her lips, licking and nibbling with satisfied groans.

"I've thought about you," he whispered against her mouth as he pulled away ever so slightly. Sansa's eyes fluttered open as his lips began grazing the skin of her cheek and down to her neck where he started in again with hungry nips and kisses.

"I've thought about you too," Sansa replied timidly. His touch - gentle yet deliberate - felt divine, and yet her mind remained ill at ease and hesitant to give in entirely. "I've been worried about you too," she added, hoping it might slow his ministrations as her body went stiff within his hands.

"Don't lie to me, Sansa," he grumbled against her throat as his tongue worked in smooth circles over her collar bone and down towards the crease of her cleavage. "You want nothing to do with me. Said so yourself."

Sansa's mouth fell open, agape as she thought of what she might say. There was so much left unsaid between them; words thick with regret and fraught with a need for forgiveness. However, those words seemed to flee her now. Managing anyhow, Sansa lowered her eyes despite the darkness, shame pulling her gaze away from him now.

"No. It's not that. I just…" Sucking in a deep breath, Sansa struggled with whether or not to free the words from the tip of her tongue. "I just thought that you and the blonde haired woman from the funeral…" Sandor pulled slightly away from her, although his grip on her waist remained firm.

"You want to know if I fucked her," he stated matter-of-factly and with a faint amount of amusement in his voice. Sansa could not see the humor in the situation and instead felt as though she had perhaps overstepped her bounds in some way. Her cheeks burned both with embarrassment as well as fear of whatever truth he might offer her now. He would not lie to her, she could be sure of that, and perhaps that was what scared her the most and beckoned her heart to begin thrumming loudly in her chest once more.

"It's really none of my business," Sansa responded, steeling herself and steadying the tremor of her voice the best she could. Without her consent, the emergence of tears stung her eyes, and Sansa shifted her gaze towards the window before they threatened to break free.

"No. I didn't sleep with her, Sansa," Sandor responded quietly, his hands smoothing up and down her back in tender motions. An inaudible sigh of relief broke from Sansa's lips. She had expected him to perhaps get angry with her, to tell her that she was no longer privy to knowledge of how or with whom he spent his time. Or worse, he might have confessed all that transpired with him and the blonde haired woman - hard and heavy truths which would shatter her heart, the one which wasn't supposed to belong to him anymore. She had fallen silent, and Sandor seemed to notice. Leaning forward, he brushed his lips against hers in a soft kiss.

"Do you know why I didn't?" he whispered against her mouth, his hands settling on her hips now. He didn't wait for her to respond to his question and instead offered a different sort of truth before her mind could come up with her own answers to his inquiry. "Because she wasn't you."

* Moving from her hips, Sandor's hands slowly navigated up the smooth bareness of her thighs as they settled beneath her skirt. A small gasp escaped her lips as two of his fingers hooked beneath the band of her underwear, pushing it aside as they dipped into the emerging wetness between her legs.

"Sandor, I think-" Sansa began on a tremulous breath, hoping to speak what was in her own heart before this all went too far, but was stopped short as he slipped one long finger inside of her.

With his thumb spreading the wetness up to her clit in slow and pleasurable circles, Sansa felt the words die on her lips once more. Some part of her knew she should tell him to stop, that this wasn't the way to amend all that had been broken between them. However, her body betrayed her as she writhed beneath his touch, wanting more as he deftly reached all the spots that made her hum with moans of pleasure. Another flush of wetness pooled between her legs, and Sansa was sure Sandor felt it as his own stifled moan broke from his lips.

Abruptly and in one fluid motion, Sandor pulled his hand from beneath her skirt and stood up from his chair. Sighing in equal measures of relief and disappointment, Sansa looked up at Sandor, wide eyed and a bit confused as she waited for him to say something. Instead, he ducked down and captured her lips in a kiss, slow and sensuous, as his fingers made quick work of the buttons at the front of her shirt. Sansa froze in his grasp when he lifted her by the waist and settled her on top of his desk, hurriedly pushing aside stacks of papers and various office supplies as he gently laid her down.

Carefully, he spread her legs and settled himself between them, gazing down as her skirt fell to expose the expanse of her thighs. Sansa's chest rose and fell with each frantic breath, drawing his attention now to her breasts. Resting one hand on either side of her head, Sandor eased himself down on top of her, pressing a soft kiss to her lips as she stilled beneath him.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he assured as he stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers before pushing down the fabric of her bra down to free her breasts.

Although her eyes were squeezed shut, Sansa nodded her head and felt him kneading her bare breasts. Once more, her body and mind battled over what was right. She could stop him now before it went too far, but if she searched herself, Sansa knew that wasn't quite what she wanted. She wanted to be close to him again, to have everything as it was before. She wanted to fall asleep in his arms at night and wake up to him in the morning. She wanted him to be the one she dined with in the evening, the one with whom she spent her days.

Sansa felt the warmth of Sandor's tongue swirling around each of her nipples in turn until they hardened to taut buds. His moistened lips ran lower still as he trailed doting kisses down her bare stomach until he stopped at the top of her skirt.

With his hands running down the outside of her thighs, Sandor stood up, and Sansa felt as he hooked his fingers beneath her underwear at the sides of her hips. With her own body dictating her motions, Sansa lifted her bottom up slightly from the desk so that he could pull her underwear free from beneath her. She watched him as he pulled the panties down her legs in a smooth, unhurried motion, his form imposing as he loomed over her. She should have been scared and thought perhaps she was stupid for not fearing him now. However, his motions - assured and so obviously eager with want- were thrilling and somehow erotic despite the danger of it all.  _He said he won't hurt me,_ Sansa reminded herself as her inner voice - prudish and chiding - called for a stop to all of this. Soaked with wetness between her legs, Sansa ached for his touch again - the weight of his body on top of hers and his fingers moving through the slickness between her folds.

Somehow sensing this, Sandor let the panties fall to the floor and gently gripped her by the knees as he spread her legs open. Even in the darkness, Sansa could tell he was casting an appreciative gaze about her body, ready and wanting for his touch. Slipping a finger inside of her once more, Sandor curled it as he stroked inside of her at that exquisite place she was never quite able to reach herself. Letting her head drop back and her eyes flutter shut, Sansa's body went limp, her limbs all simultaneously releasing the tension they had previously held.

Starting at her knee, Sandor traced his lips down the inside of her thigh, dawdling in lingering kisses and licks towards the hand working between her legs. When his lips reached the end and his cheek was flush with his hand, Sandor stopped and pulled out of her, his mouth hovering just slightly above her wetness spread before him. Sansa could feel each of his panting breaths warm between her legs until he moved closer, his lips pressing against her slit.

With an exploratory swipe of his tongue, Sandor gave a gentle lick between her folds, and urged on by the breathy moan that escaped her lips, ran the tip of his tongue in tight circles over her clit, interrupted every now and then as he sucked gently on the nub of flesh.

With a shudder moving through her, Sansa arched into him, her legs falling open even further as he thrust two fingers into her, stroking her from within as his tongue eagerly lapped at the wetness and teased her clit with flickering movements. With her heart racing and body humming, Sansa lifted her head slightly, marveling at the sight of him between her legs and riding each wave of pleasure with whimpering cries escaping her lips.

Sandor's tongue eagerly took the place of his fingers as he pulled them from Sansa and settled his hands on her hips, stilling her uncontrolled writhing. His tongue worked against her entrance, licking with soft passes before shallowly submerging into her as the pad of his thumb pressed gently against her clit. Looking down once more, Sansa saw Sandor was looking up at her, his eyes devilishly taking in the sight of her panting and moaning on increasingly labored breaths. Once more, he seemed to intuit what she wanted as two fingers slid back inside of her and his tongue reclaimed her clit with a delicate lick.

As the rhythm of Sandor's movements increased in speed, Sansa felt the surmounting pressure between her legs and buried her hands within the strands of his hair as her head fell back against the desk with a thud. The momentary throbbing of pain at the back of her head was eclipsed by the sudden release of pressure between her legs which was quickly followed by a frenzy of rapturous euphoria reverberating as a shock through her body.

As Sansa went limp and sighed out the final wave of her release, Sandor lifted himself from between her legs as he licked his lips, panting as he lowered himself on top of her and pressed his mouth to hers. As her lips parted against his, Sandor immediately deepened the kiss, and Sansa willingly obliged, although she was a bit scandalized at the taste of herself which lingered on his tongue. Wrapping her arms around his neck, Sansa pulled Sandor closer to her but was met with some resistance, as his hand had reached down between them and he fumbled with the zipper of his pants.

Before Sansa could protest, Sandor had already pulled the hardened length of his manhood free from his pants. With her eyes wide and staring up at him uncertainly, Sandor gazed back at her, the lust gleaming in his eyes and clear as day despite the dimness of the room.

In slow, fluid movements, Sandor bucked his hips against her, his cock settling between her folds and sliding up and down the soaking wetness there. Sansa let out a gasp as Sandor guided the head of his cock to circle around her entrance.

"Little bird, I can make you feel good," he murmured as he began running his tongue down her neck, terminating in kisses when he reached her collarbone and working back up to her lips. "And you can make me feel good too," he moaned breathlessly as he rocked into her, his hips moving against her as he began sliding the tip of his manhood up and down her slit.

"Sandor," was all Sansa could manage as she began to tremble beneath him, terrified she had let this all go too far and that he might not stop now. Before she could say much more, he interrupted, smoothing her hair away from the sides of her face with as much gentleness as she had ever seen in him.

"I want you, Sansa," he whispered before softly pressing his lips to hers. "I've wanted you. Only you." Once more, the tip of his hardness was pressing against her entrance, but this time she felt the pinching of pressure as he waited for her consent, the smallest traces of encouragement.

"No," Sansa breathed with a shake of her head, her voice quivering.

"Sansa," he murmured, his voice pleading and his lips brushing against hers as the pressure increased between her legs.

"No!" Sansa cried, her hands now pushing against his shoulders, although she didn't have to push much at all. He was already off of her, chest heaving as he mumbled curses beneath his breath and he rubbed his hands hard over his face. Tucking himself back into his pants and falling into his chair, Sandor rested his elbows on his knees and cradled his face in his hands, his body seeming to tremble as he pulled in shaky breaths.

* Standing up, Sansa buttoned her shirt up and smoothed down her skirt before tugging on the pull chain of the tiffany lamp situated at the corner of his desk. As the orb of light illuminated the space between them, she was now afforded a complete vision of him for the first time and saw what he had been trying to hide in the darkness.

As he settled back in his chair, Sansa could see his eyes no longer held a resigned emptiness nor had he barricaded himself behind the visage of numbness. To look upon him now was to see the face of suffering; his eyes were swollen and red, the mark of tears not long ago shed, and even now his lip seemed to quiver as his eyebrows were drawn together in an expression of both grief and embarrassment at being seen like this. Sorrow had clearly caught up to him, seizing him with a vengeance that was externally visible.

"My God. Look at me," Sansa breathed as she stepped towards him and caressed both of his cheeks with the palms of her hands. He stilled beneath her touch and swallowed hard but refused to meet her insistent and worried stare. "You're scaring me, Sandor. Please look at me."

At that, he squeezed his eyes shut and gave a small, almost indiscernible shake of his head. It was too much to ask of him, she knew. The man had prided himself as a pillar of strength, indestructible and impervious to the human condition. He had fashioned himself as such by mortaring away all the cracks in his façade until he was impassible - stoic as stone unless provoked into wrath and rage.

Leaning forward, Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her cheek against his before murmuring into his ear.

"Let me help, or if not me, let  _someone_ help. Please. You can't go on like this."

For a moment, she felt his body - rigid and trembling - soften a bit in her arms, and she thought he might relent. Pulling away, Sansa rested her hands on his shoulders, and although his stare was still cast away from her, she could see the hurt brimming in his eyes and the faint glinting of moisture pooling there.

If he looked at her, it would all fall apart. For her and for him, it would fall apart and she didn't know if she had the strength to hold it all together on her own. He must've known because he steadied his gaze further away from her, but still she saw he was already coming undone, his world crumbling around him. Somehow the rage had fled, and Sansa saw what existed beneath it: a good man who had lost all; watched it slip through his hands, powerless to stop it. A man who had suffered so profoundly in this life and had only wanted a little light in all the darkness, something to hold onto. It was so little to ask, and yet the heavens had denied him. Unmasked and stripped bare, Sansa saw him for who he was. He hadn't willingly showed her this, but she saw it all the same.

Chin tipped up and head held high, Sandor's eyes remained at some invisible point in the darkness beyond his desk. His chest heaved as his breaths deepened, and he bit his bottom lip hard. Sansa knew he was scrambling to put it together again and make himself appear whole to her.

"I don't need your fucking help, girl. I didn't say I needed you. I said I wanted you. There's a difference."

If Sandor meant to find strength and truth in his own words, then it was his voice which betrayed him, rendering him a liar as it faltered with a quivering and weakened timbre. Whatever unyielding resoluteness he hoped to pack behind those words was lost. Moving one step closer to him, Sansa reached to cup his cheek but was stopped short as his hand flew up and encircled her wrist.

When his gaze snapped towards her, Sansa saw the anger returning to his eyes, battling the pain to fill him with a different kind of torment. Shoving her hand away, Sandor's eyes flickered across the desk until narrowing on the bottle of whiskey that had been pushed aside.

Somehow finding her strength, Sansa moved away from him and snatched up his glass of whiskey before upending its contents into the small waste bin next to his desk. Before he could reach for it, Sansa grabbed the bottle of whiskey. Clutching the bottle to her chest, Sansa turned towards Sandor and steadied her eyes on him.

Maybe others would let him continue down this path, either too afraid to stand in his way or to deny him anything in his state of bereavement.  _He can rage at me all he wants, but enough is enough._

"No more," Sansa asserted, her voice strong and determined now. "This has to stop," she added a bit softer.

As Sandor considered her with a furious glare, she thought he meant to say something, but instead his voice erupted into low, sardonic laughter. It sounded more akin to a growl and resuscitated Sansa's fear of him. Ducking down, she snatched up her underwear on the floor and retreated away from his desk in quickened paces. By the time Sansa had made it halfway across the room, she heard Sandor fly from his chair and his fists pound on his desk.

"Go on! Go run back to the kid," he raged before giving the tray of food a violent shove, sending it careening off his desk as plates broke and cannolis scattered across the floor. "You think I don't know that Zulu's been up your ass since all of this happened? Is he up your cunt too? Wait, don't tell me. He needs you too."

She knew she should have left without turning around. She should have slipped from his office without response and shut the door behind her, leaving him to his fury. However, it was the way in which his voice broke off that startled Sansa: the pain that reverberated through the vitriol of his words and the fear she heard behind it all, the fear that he might lose her too.

Turning around before she reached the door, she saw Sandor standing behind his desk, his eyes searching her out in earnest through the darkness. She had seen him enraged before, knew all too well what that looked like on him, but that wasn't what she found when she turned to him. Instead, he was defeated, a man no longer willing to fight against all that besieged him. He had conjured up words meant to wound her, to cut her so that she might hurt in the same way that he was hurting now. They could suffer together at all the pain, real and imagined. Endlessly they could go on like this - hurting one another and separating to lick their wounds before coming back for more, but to what end?

_No more. This has to stop._

"No, Sandor," Sansa spoke, entreating her words to find him in the darkness and gentle the rage, soothe away the pain. "You're the only one. The only one I see. The only one I want." In the end, it was she who now felt defeated, her voice forlorn and routed.

Having seen enough, Sansa lowered her eyes and left before it all came undone completely. With quickened steps, she retreated down the hall and all but ran down the steps when she reached them. As she turned the corner of the landing separating the second and third floors, Sansa had hardly seen Zulu coming up the stairs until she was careening into him. Holding his hands out to steady her on the step above him, the boy gave a nervous laugh before looking up at her with a relieved smile.

"Zulu," Sansa exhaled as she clutched her chest, certain the boy had been on a mission to give her a heart attack.

"They said you went to talk to Sandor," Zulu explained, his eyes surveying her and seeming to grow alarmed as he puzzled out her distress. "So I was coming to look for-"

His words stopped short as Zulu's stare landed on the items Sansa was clutching in her hands. Casting his gaze away, Zulu bit his bottom lip as his countenance now seemed to fracture with disappointment and hurt. Mortified, Sansa tucked the hand holding her panties behind her back and tried to summon an explanation. When nothing came, Zulu looked up towards the third floor, his eyes wide with disbelief and anger.

"Did he hurt you?" the boy demanded, putting more force behind his voice than Sansa had ever heard in him before. Before Sansa had time to answer, Zulu moved forward, trying his best to work past her in some gallant effort to fight whatever battle he thought she needed him for.

"No," Sansa shook her head adamantly as her arm flew out to block Zulu's path. "I'm fine. It's fine," she reassured with a weak smile. Nodding his head in understanding, Zulu lowered his gaze but not before Sansa saw the pain and defeat in his eyes.

"Zulu." Sansa tried to reach out to him, but he would not look at her and instead began working his way back down the stairs.

"I'll take you back to your room, Miss Sansa," was all he said, and Sansa trailed a few steps behind him, wishing there was something she might say to ease whatever disappointment now resided within him. When they reached her door, Zulu tipped his head to her, his gaze still downcast.

"Good night, Miss Sansa," he muttered politely before turning to leave.

"Zulu, please," Sansa called after him. "I'm sorry," she added, not knowing what exactly she was apologizing for or what else to say. For a moment, Zulu said nothing but instead shook his head as he stared at the ground.

"You would tell me if he hurt you, right?" he asked with a fair amount of hesitance as he finally met Sansa's eyes. Full of concern and perhaps regret, he seemed to be pleading with her. "If he ever laid a hand on you in any way you didn't want, you would tell me?"

Sansa met his insistent stare and nodded her head firmly, truthfully.

"I would tell you," she spoke quietly, her voice falling to a hush in the darkness. "He hasn't hurt me. He wouldn't hurt me."

Although Zulu nodded his head before turning away, Sansa knew he didn't believe her, wouldn't allow himself to. She didn't know what he believed in, but it was plain to see it wasn't the idea of her and Sandor together.

Once safely behind her bedroom door, Sansa readied herself for bed and crawled in between the sheets. For one hour or perhaps more - she couldn't quite tell for sure - Sansa lay awake, staring at the ceiling before thrashing about as she tried to find a comfortable position and waited for sleep to take her. It never did, and instead she found that her only companion in the darkness of night was her own troubled thoughts.

 _Sandor wouldn't hurt me. He wouldn't._ Sansa wondered if she believed her own words, although she imagined she did. True, he had hurt her in some ways, but she never honestly believed he would ever hurt her in any serious or permanent way. However, to an outsider looking in such as Zulu, Sansa knew the picture of her coupling with Sandor was painted in different hues - dangerous and something to approach with concern and caution. Even more cause for concern might be the way in which Sansa was unwilling, now, to leave him and abandon him alone in his suffering.

Some would call it naïveté, that she was a young girl inexperienced in love and blind to the cruelty of the world. They might think she hadn't lived long enough to know how a broken heart changes you and that you heal from it a bit harder, calcified to wariness and cynicism with each break. Some might look upon her and think  _'That poor girl. This is nothing but the whimsies of young love. She thinks she can save him. Bless her heart.'_ Well-meaning as the words may be, Sansa could almost hear the condescension and see the judgment in others' eyes.

She knew little of how the logistics of love worked, but she knew it didn't flee at the first signs of hardship. Steady and strong was the love she envisioned because only then can it be called true. Others could call it foolishness, and they could warn her she was offering herself up to the flames, likely to be burned.

Perhaps there may be a shred of truth in all of it. She had once been naïve, had once been blind and more than likely foolish. But what many might fail to see is that it was, for all those reasons, why she was the best equipped to help him and to love him. Sansa's heart had not grown bitter, and she was not a hardened cynic who no longer believed that love held a mysterious sort of power - a power which could chase away darkness even from the most blackened of hearts.

She didn't care what the others would think of her; they could scoff, they could condescend, they could worry after her endlessly and try to school her into their ways of thinking. Sansa didn't care because her own heart had already decided what needed to be done.  _I must be strong. For him and for me, I have to be._

Closing her eyes, Sansa prayed. Not to any god, but to him, to Sandor.

_I don't know where you've gone to, and I don't know if I can reach you there. But I will follow you through the depths of your own darkness, the personal hell of suffering you find yourself in. Perhaps you won't see me through the darkness, but you will feel me there. I will wade through the rage, weather the wrath, and suffer the sorrow. Even if it destroys me, I will stay by your side. I will bring you back._

* * *

His office was a mess by the time he was done: books pulled from shelves, papers ripped to shreds and strewn about, broken shards from the various trinkets Mirabelle had decorated the room with, gaping holes in the wall, and pieces of colored glass from the lamp glinting in the serene moonlight. It was madness amongst beauty. Sandor was left alone in darkness, sitting in the middle of the floor as he pulled in deep breaths to calm himself and released them in huffs.

He was sober by the time Sansa left - delirious and reeling despite having all his faculties about him. He much preferred the haze of drunkenness; the way the world would blur together and the details never quite seemed to matter anymore. Everything faded to black then, and he found he much preferred the darkness too.

Exchanging one vice for another, he had wanted to take Sansa right there on his desk - to plunge inside the warm wetness between her legs and watch her face contort in pleasure as he brought her to yet another climax. It was the only way he knew to get closer to her, and that was what he had wanted, really - an intimacy he knew he couldn't get and didn't want from anyone else. For the umpteenth time, Sandor licked his lips at the thought, although the taste of her sweetness had long since left.

If she had known he was hanging on by a thread, she might have thought twice about coming to him. He had refused to meet with his men, a meeting which was meant to solidify where they go from here and to begin paving the road forward as a unified whole. Instead, Sandor had hid away as some part of his consciousness began enumerating all the ways he could have saved his sister, the choices he could have made and the paths he should have chosen which would ultimately culminate in her being alive today.

 _'You could have killed Gregor when you had the chance. Why didn't you?'_ his mind taunted, and somehow he felt weak against it.  _You could have protected her the same way you protected Sansa, refusing to let her out of your sight. You shouldn't have let Mirabelle get in a car with Vinny. You knew Vinny was no good. Why didn't you stop it? You could have stopped it. Why didn't you? She's dead because of you. You might as well have killed her yourself._

Seeking sanctuary at the bottom of a Jack Daniels bottle, Sandor had meant to wash all the thoughts away on a sea of whiskey, to drown them out until the black behind his eyes welcomed him with a numbed embrace. It did little to stop the madness, and if anything, it only made things worse by amplifying the wretchedness he felt.  _'Put a bullet through your head and be done with it,'_ had been the last thought he had had before Sansa came to him. If only she could have known all the ways in which she saved him. Mirthlessly, he laughed at the thought, morbid though it was.

Her presence had ignited a sort of frenzy within him. He wanted her in a way he had never wanted another person before. He wanted  _all_ of her - wanted to cling to her, wanted to plead with her to make it stop and to fix everything that was broken within him. He had said he didn't need her, and that had been a boldfaced lie, one she had seen plain as day. Yet it was the kindness she had offered him, the selflessness and genuine concern she had regarded him with which had beckoned him to lose control. And he would have too. He would have fucked it all up, ruining the only good thing left in his life if it wasn't for the last thing she had said to him.

_'You're the only one. The only one I see. The only one I want.'_

With those words - sweetly spoken and possessing a rawness which affirmed their truth - Sandor had truly come undone and thanked every fucking god in existence she hadn't been around to see it. It was pain masquerading as rage which overtook him after she left. He destroyed anything he could get his hands on, broke all the beautiful things around him until his knuckles were bleeding and the mania slowed to a halt, leaving him out of breath and finally subdued to a temporary calm.

Clever little thing that she was, Sansa had taken with her the last of his booze, understanding all the ways he had been self-medicating at the expense of his own sanity and, perhaps, his liver too.  _You can't save me from that tonight, little bird._

Pushing himself up from the vestiges of his unraveling, Sandor carefully stepped over pieces of glass and broken furniture until he reached the door of his office. The bar in the basement was fully stocked with just about every top-shelf liquor imaginable. While he wouldn't find a replacement bottle of Jack down there, he was sure to find something better, Johnnie perhaps.

When he reached the first floor, Sandor could see from the foyer that the lights were still on in the kitchen, and he could hear the hushed murmurings of conversation. He had half expected to find the women well into their wine cups and still loitering about. Instead, he found his capos perched about the room, leaning against countertops or standing with their arms crossed about their chests and appearing heavy in thought. Marco was conveniently missing from the group, a lost cause it would seem.

Prominent amongst the men were Bronn and Alberto, appearing to share the weight of the world between them. As Sandor approached, his men gave silent nods of respect and cleared the way so that he could stand at the center of the room.

"Louisa called. Vinny came to," Bronn informed somberly and as if he were reading a death sentence. For all intents and purposes, he was. Vinny was on borrowed time, and to look around the room, the others knew it as well.

Made men turned rat here and there, some finding the criminal underworld not what they expected and saw this path as the only way out. Vinny's brand of treachery was different, though. The man hadn't, at least to Sandor's knowledge, cooperated with the Feds. What he had done was worse. He had led Mirabelle and Thomas to certain death, turned on his own kind in the most despicable way.

 _Blood for blood. Someone needs to pay._ Vinny would be for starters. It didn't matter if the man had a wife and kid. Louisa and Briella would weep for him at a funeral by themselves. Perhaps then they would realize the piece of shit they were putting into the ground was a traitor and deserved what he got.

When Sandor's gaze landed on Alberto, the man's lips drew together in a thin line as he cast a furtive glance towards Bronn before lowering his eyes altogether.

"What aren't you telling me?" Sandor demanded as his gaze flickered between the two men.

"Vinny awoke right after visiting hours were over, but the nurse on duty let Louisa see him anyway," Alberto answered, his hands folded in front of him yet appeared to shake ever so slightly. "When I talked to her, she seemed to be concerned and upset. As she was leaving the hospital, she saw a group of men loitering around on the same floor as Vinny's room. Something about it didn't seem right, she said. The men appeared to be waiting for something or someone."

"Our men?" Although his words were posed as a question, Sandor already knew the answer. The capos knew better than to go to Vinny first and without his consent.

"No," Alberto shook his head. "She didn't recognize them, but she did describe one of them as tall, much taller than you, and built like a brick wall. The man stuck out by his sheer size alone."

"Gregor."

As the sound of his brother's name left his lips, something seemed to break free within Sandor, and the deluge of mania returned, quickly reaching a fever pitch. He had already known that Gregor murdered their sister. Only a monster could have slaughtered her with such violence and brutality, simultaneously manifesting both Sandor and Mirabelle's greatest fears.

Rushing from the room in pounding strides, Sandor made for the front door as Bronn called out after him. All the restlessness and rage he had felt stirring within him was now funneled towards a singular focus, and with that focus came a renewed purpose, hinged on a need for violence and thirst for vengeance. There was hell to pay, and Sandor wasn't going to wait another moment to collect on that debt.

"Sandor, we can't go in there without a plan," Bronn called out behind him as he struggled to keep pace.

The man's effort was lost as Sandor pushed through the front door and continued down the front steps, taking them two at a time before barreling down the half-circle drive towards his car.

"Sandor, stop!" Bronn bellowed once more, out of breath both from exasperation and exertion at trying to keep up. It was the way Bronn said his name, tinged with hurt, which ultimately made Sandor stop short of his car and turn around to face the man.

"We do this together, you and me," Bronn nearly pleaded as his eyes matched Sandor's in an intent stare.

Sandor looked away, fearing that his resolve might ultimately be sullied by guilt; guilt at what was now beginning to feel like a betrayal to the brotherhood he shared with Bronn. Turning away lest he faltered, Sandor fumbled for the key fob in his pocket as he paced towards the passenger side door of the car. In the glove box, he retrieved his .45 Glock, checking the ammo before tossing it on the passenger seat.

"What are you going to do? Run in and blow his brains out?" Bronn hollered as Sandor slammed the car door shut and finally turned to look at him once more. "He's in a fucking hospital for Christ's sake," Bronn reasoned in earnest. "This needs to be discreet and after we get everything out of him. It'd be best to wait until morning."

"Vinny brought Mirabelle here, like a lamb to the slaughter, and you want me towait?" Sandor seethed as his hand flew up to gesture towards the mansion.

"Get on board, or get out of my way," he added, spiteful, when Bronn remained silent. Shaking his head, Bronn took slow steps backwards away from Sandor before turning around altogether and heading back inside. Sandor didn't disagree on much with Bronn, and perhaps this was the first time they had ever truly disagreed on how a matter got settled. Although they seemed worlds apart, it was clear Sandor and Bronn both shared in a mutual disappointment in the other.

Slipping into the car, Sandor turned the engine and sped from the half-circle drive. A part of him knew Bronn had the right of it in theory. Despite Bronn's logic and reasoning, though, Sandor had already convinced himself that his suffering - this invading weakness of grief - was a sickness which needed to be bled from him through the wounds of others.

Anguish had violated his existence when it came to court the anger which had already been there. Together, sorrow and rage proliferated to an all-consuming suffering, a force that was devouring him whole. Fiber by fiber, Sandor was becoming a different being altogether - a monster for true who would hurt others before ultimately hurting himself.

He saw this as an opportunity to cast out his silent tormentor and draw out the poison of this affliction through retribution. Vinny would die, and Sandor would no longer suffer this sorrow, or so he reasoned.

By the time he reached the desert highway heading south towards Las Vegas, Sandor noticed a pair of headlights hovering in his rear-view mirror. His eyes flickered to the Glock sitting in the passenger seat before narrowing once more towards his would-be pursuer.

The car behind him frantically kept pace as Sandor navigated the twists and turns of the desert road at a reckless speed. When the highway finally straightened out into a long expanse, Sandor pressed down hard on the acceleration to put distance between himself and the other car. Steadily, the car behind seemed to be gaining on him despite his speed.

Studying the rear-view mirror, Sandor saw but the one pair of headlights, a single car racing after him in the dead of night. Agitation began to thrum within him until it mounted into anger. He wanted to be left alone in his pursuit and thought that that had been made quite clear. Whoever was trailing behind him, though, seemed to match his resolve with just as much fervor.

Gritting his teeth, Sandor let off the acceleration before pulling off to the side of the road. The car came to a screeching halt as he slammed on the brakes and reached across the seat to snatch up his Glock before it careened to the floorboard. Watching through the rear-view mirror, Sandor saw the pursuing car begin to slow its approach, although the distance between them had not been enough to allow for the car to stop in time. Instead, it barreled past him before swerving onto the side of the road and skidding to a halt some thirty feet ahead of him.

Without a second thought, Sandor kicked open the door of his car and sprung out, his gun raised as he clutched it tightly in his hand. He approached the pursuing car, its taillights glowing red through the plumes of dust and sand billowing around him.

Each step was sure footed as Sandor neared closer, the thought of being afraid fleeing him as his eyes frantically searched through the darkness for his pursuer. He hoped it was Gregor, and prayed beneath his breath that he would find his brother lurking amongst the shadows on the side of the desert highway. The last time he had come face to face with his brother, Sandor had missed the opportunity to murder Gregor and put an end to it, once and for all. It had been a grievous mistake, one which had cost Mirabelle her life.

With the thought fueling his rage, Sandor quickened his steps towards the car with a maddening curiosity at who had been chasing him through the night. The dust had settled by the time he reached the driver's side door. Steadying his gun towards the car, Sandor went to yank the door open, but was stopped as it was pushed open from the inside.

Arms raised as soon as he saw the .45 shoved in his face, Alberto slowly lifted himself from the car. Sandor steadied his eyes on the old man. Of course, it would be Moriarti, coming to rescue him from making some foolhardy mistake which might bring shame to the organization. The man should have known better than taking on an orphaned kid full of unbridled and unresolved rage and making him his successor. Sandor wondered if Moriarti regretted it, if the old man had taken stock of his life and found but that one glaring mistake, a misstep which had ultimately only brought him misery.

With bitter thoughts dictating his movements, Sandor stepped forward and pressed the gun to Alberto's forehead, his eyes carefully gauging the man's reaction.

"Put the gun down," Alberto sighed as he lowered his hands to his sides. The man did not fear death, it would seem, but he didn't quite welcome it in the same way Sandor had come to in the past few days. His was a resigned sort of courtship with the only promise life ever made good on - the fact that it would come to an eventual end. He was an old man with no family. He had lived his life and wasn't afraid to die.

"Get back in the car and go," Sandor asserted, his hand descending into an unbidden trembling as Moriarti seemed to stare right through him. "I mean it, old man," Sandor growled, pushing the gun harder against Alberto's forehead. Could he do it? Could he actually turn on the man who had taken him in? Sandor didn't quite know what exactly he was capable of anymore. He had done many egregious things in his life and shuddered at the thought of what else he might be forced, or worse, choose to do.

"If you mean it, then shoot me, Sandor. Pull the trigger and shoot me," Alberto insisted without hesitation. If anything, the man sounded tired, as if he were reasoning with a child and no longer possessed the will to put up a fight. "Go on. Shoot me. Is that what's going to make you feel better? Is that what's going to make this all go away?"

Moriarti's eyes did not falter, no more than his voice did. It was unnerving, and Sandor hated the way the man was staring at him with eyes seeming to see all. He felt exposed and vulnerable beneath the weight of the man's gaze. His jaw clenched as he squeezed the gun tighter in his hand, trying in vain to stop its shaking. Sensing Sandor's unease, Moriarti dropped his gaze to the ground at his feet, lifting his hands up in acquiescence as he did.

"Son, put the gun down and follow me back-"

He had heard Moriarti call him 'son' before, but never quite in this way. It wasn't spoken as a term of endearment for a man younger than him. It was spoken the way a father would speak to his own flesh and blood. Once more, Sandor felt yet another break within him, and this time it released a long forgotten sorrow.

"I had a father and my brother murdered him. And now Mirabelle too. I'm not your fucking son," Sandor fumed, full of venom and spite.

As soon as the words left Sandor's mouth, Alberto snapped an infuriated glare towards him. Shocked into silence at such an abrupt change in the man's normally placid demeanor, Sandor watched as Alberto's thin and bony body began to quiver in what seemed uncontrolled tremors. His hands, usually folded gently in front of him, curled into fists so tight, Sandor was certain the man would draw blood from his palms.

"You are a son to me!" Moriarti screamed into the night, his eyes now as wide as they were wild and a fearsome sight to behold, even for Sandor who wrote the book on rage. "And Mirabelle a daughter." Alberto slammed a fist against the trunk of the car, the sound punctuating his words with angry emphasis. "I've lost one child, and I don't want to lose another."

Thunderstruck, all Sandor could do was stare at the man, only now seeing that he, too, was suffering, and his eyes held all the heaviness of pain one would expect from a parent who lost a child. It hadn't even occurred to Sandor that Moriarti was grieving too. So lost in his own heartache, he had barely recognized it in others.

"Your death wish isn't going to bring your sister back." Alberto continued, his voice and his countenance now fractured with grief. His ferocity had waned, and now his eyes seemed to glisten with the threat of tears.

"She's not coming back, Sandor," Moriarti cried as the tears broke free and spilled over the man's wrinkled cheeks. "You can drink yourself into an early grave, you can run out and get yourself killed, and still your sister is not coming back."

Without realizing it, the gun in Sandor's hand had lowered as his arms fell to his side. Closing his eyes, he saw her; not in her death, but in her life. His baby sister was beautiful again, put back together somehow. Within him, another break came as he felt Moriarti's hands rest heavily upon his shoulders.

"She's not coming back," the man all but whispered. "You must understand. She's not coming back."

Moriarti's words, softly spoken, pounded through Sandor's head as they hammered away at the barricades of grief. With each word, the blows seemed to come harder, and Sandor felt pieces of his resolve breaking away. He would soon shatter against the weight of it all.

"Mirabelle is gone, Sandor. She's gone."

Yet another blow, and now he felt it all falling to pieces. He had sought destruction as a means of healing, and yet it was him who was destroyed in the end, the barriers against all the pain tumbling around him.

"Shut the fuck up!" he roared, his eyes flying open as he pushed Moriarti away from him. The man went tumbling backwards, his fall broken as he stumbled into the car.

"Just stop," Sandor shouted, although the charade of rage was over, unmasked to reveal unmarred anguish.

"Stop it," he pleaded with a whimper as his vision refracted through the emergence of tears. "Please. Stop it. Make it stop."

That was the final break before the release. The sobs came like thrashing waves, breaking through his body as his shoulders shook and chest heaved. Too weak to stand against it any longer, Sandor fell to his hands and knees. The tears he shed were not silent as they had been before. Instead, his sorrow came in wails which broke free from his lips as the tears patted the ground beneath him.

In an instant, Moriarti was on his knees beside him, pulling Sandor into his arms and cradling him against his chest.

"Let it out," Alberto encouraged with a tight embrace. "Just let it out."

With his face buried against the man's chest, Sandor did exactly that for the first time since Mirabelle's body was taken away in an ambulance, his sister lost to him forever. His screaming sobs were muffled as Moriarti held onto him with a strength Sandor had underestimated in the man. Eventually, the tears slowed, more from exhaustion than mitigation of grief, and Alberto released his hold. Side by side, the men sat with their backs pressed up against the side of the car.

"What do I do?" Sandor sniffled, his voice lowered to a rasp. "What am I supposed to do?"

It wasn't a question posed for his consigliere. It was a question for the man who had become a second father to him; a man who took him and his sister under his protection and raised them as his own, a man who, undoubtedly, saved Sandor from himself so many years ago and had saved him once more this very night. Moriarti understood.

They weren't colleagues tied to the same organization. They weren't brothers bonded through the oaths each of them took. They were father and son - not bonded by blood, but by life and by death.

Turning a warm gaze towards Sandor, Moriarti answered, assured and with a vernacular as to suggest Sandor was not alone in this. They had suffered together and would rise again together.

"First, we bury your sister - lay our Mirabelle to rest - and then we go to the mattresses. War is coming."

* * *

_  
Mafia dictionary_

**Consigliere:** The third man in line in the hierarchy of a family's leadership, beneath the boss and underboss. Traditionally, he is meant to be an impartial party who can give unbiased advice to the boss. However, in the American mafia, especially in the later half of the 20th century, the consiglieri tended towards being a less impartial party and, in some cases, ordered hits and orchestrated murders of soldiers (made men) and even bosses.

 **Turk:** Short for young turk; a young, inexperienced made man

 **Associate:** An individual who works for the mafia, but is not an initiated member.

 **Tesoro:** An Italian term of endearment, meaning "my treasure".

 **Go to the mattresses:** War between rival families. During this time, the made men and their families move to one location for their protection (safety in numbers). Because sleeping situations are limited with everyone in such close quarters, mattresses would be thrown on the floors for people to sleep on. To "go to the mattresses" or to "hit the mattresses" implies war because it is assumed that everyone will be staying in a "safe house" for the duration of the "war".

_Song List_

**Ch. 12**

"Why Don't You Do It For Me" The 22-20's

"Bang Bang" Nancy Sinatra

"Afraid" The Neighborhood

"Gone Away" The Offspring

A youtube playlist with songs from all chapters can be found [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FkgMbiVi_3E&feature=share&list=PLxyjbkMgNg8-sKdaxT0S87980nYuZJLlC)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tremendous thank you to mendedheart and criminal intent for beta'ing this! It's quite an undertaking and it would take longer to get updates out if not for these lovely ladies! They deserve top-notch praise :)
> 
> I also cannot thank all you readers enough for the enormous amount of support you give this story. I was certain I'd receive backlash for the events of last chapter, but I was met with nothing but love.
> 
> As always, reviews are lovely and very much appreciated. I adore hearing your thoughts, opinions, and reactions to the events of each chapter. It warms my heart and gives me lots of things to think about as I start shaping the next update.
> 
> More than likely, this will be the last update of 2013. Happy holidays and a marvelous New Year!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Violence and language. Business as usual for this story.

**Gods and Monsters**

Chapter 13

* * *

Sandor watched Dr. Charles Turner approach the Mercedes hesitantly, eyes shifting about the parking garage in obvious trepidation.  The man had shed his stark white lab coat, the ubiquitous symbol of his profession and something the man seemed to wear quite proudly.  It was an arrogant sort of pride, though, entirely self-serving and a product of profound egotism. 

Parked in an empty spot near a set of double doors on the ground floor of the hospital, the doctor knew which car to approach.  The details of this rendezvous had been offered to him along with a vague and cryptic threat.  Although he could not know for sure, Sandor counted on Dr. Turner keeping this particular appointment.  The man’s sense of purpose and self-worth was intricately tied to the accolades he received from his chosen profession.  Like clockwork, the man was opening the door of Sandor’s car at precisely 8:00 pm. 

In the rear-view mirror, Sandor saw the headlights of Bronn and Go-Go’s vehicle flick on - a signal that the exchange of words between Sandor and Dr. Turner was now being recorded.  Each and every incriminating turn of the conversation would ensure Sandor’s hand up in this situation.   

“Doc,” Sandor greeted as the man closed the car door shut behind him.  Tension radiated off of the doctor’s body as his arms tightly folded across his chest, a gesture of self-protection.  Although he would not return his stare, Sandor could see dark circles which seemed indelibly etched beneath the man’s eyes. “Stressful day?” Sandor prodded mockingly with a sly smile. 

Dr. Turner was chewing his bottom lip and gave a slight shake of the head as he stared straight ahead. 

“I just want to get this over with,” the man murmured with a sigh.   

“As do I,” Sandor countered truthfully.  “It’s all very simple.  All you have to do is turn a blind eye for a little while.  Take a stroll and get some coffee.  Get a blow job from a nurse you’ve been eyeing.  Fuck, I don’t care what you do.  When you come back and find that the man isn’t breathing, you just simply write that down in his chart.  The fat fuck finally gave up the fight and didn’t pull through after all.  It happens all the time.”

Sandor watched as the doctor closed his eyes and released a breath, the internal struggle obvious as silence stretched between them. 

“If someone finds out, my career…” Dr. Turner began ominously, eyes still closed as if to purposely blind himself to the quandary he had landed himself in. 

“Your career is a fucking fraud,” Sandor cut in, impatient and unsympathetic towards the man’s absurd sense of self-righteousness. “Tell me, doc, how is this so different from all your other patients you’ve murdered?”

The man’s eyes flew open as he gaped at Sandor.  Dr. Turner was an older man, well into his fifties with a prestigious career behind his name and a résumé rife with bestowed honors and awards.  It was a lot to lose for someone on the cusp of retiring with his name and reputation intact despite all the underhanded deeds that had been done throughout his career. 

“It’s not murder if someone wants to die, to put an end to their suffering,” the man argued on a thin voice.  “If there’s nothing I can do for my patient and they want to go, what right do I have to refuse and prolong their pain?”

Sandor would not belabor the ethical and moral caveats of the doctor’s illicit activities.  The legality was all that mattered.  Beyond that, the man had just implicated himself in nearly a dozen deaths of his patients.  The trail he had left behind was sloppy, and Go-Go had sniffed it out easily enough. 

“According to the medical board of the state of Nevada, assisted suicide is still illegal.  I’m sure you’d have one hell of a time convincing them otherwise at a malpractice hearing.”

The threat was unspoken in explicit terms, but Dr. Turner understood, as his breaths seemed to momentarily cease and panic set it.  Sandor followed the man’s eyes to the door handle on the passenger side. 

“Look at it this way; Vinny wants to die,” Sandor reasoned as calmly as he could before the doctor could make a move and flee.  “He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s about to find out.  You sign off that it was a natural death, and we won’t divulge your secrets to the Chief Physician.  If you refuse my offer, your career is done.  If you accept my offer, your secrets are safe with me.  You can retire in a few years and live out your life like this never happened.”    

Dr. Turner descended into silence once more as he trailed one of his hands over his gaunt face and through his thinning and grayed hair.  He did not look at Sandor when he finally spoke, but rather his eyes shifted slightly in the direction of the driver’s seat, the guilt rather obvious despite the man’s resignation. 

“Visiting hours are over at 9:30,” the man informed with a somber reluctance.  “The nurse on duty will start making her rounds fifteen minutes before then, so you need to be gone by 9:15.”

Satisfied, Sandor nodded his head with a conspicuous smile. 

“Good man.  I knew you’d come through,” he responded with a pat on Dr. Turner’s shoulder.  Upon contact, the man visible tensed, his lips set in a thin, strained line.   Without another word, Dr.  Turner pushed the door open and began to climb out. 

“Oh, and doc,” Sandor added as one of the man’s legs dangled out of the car.  Turning his head over his shoulder, the doctor finally met Sandor’s stare, something Sandor would take full advantage of.  Steeling his eyes with an intensity which matched his words, Sandor spoke in an even-toned and low timbre.

“If this doesn’t go down the way we discussed, it’s not just your career that will be on the line.  You know that right?”

Lowering his eyes, the man nodded his head, despondency now coloring his already forlorn and fatigued countenance.  Sandor watched as the man removed himself from the vehicle and retreated back towards the double doors.  In the periphery of his vision, he could see the headlights of Bronn’s car extinguish, signaling this part of the deal was done.  Should the good doctor renege, his fate was already sealed by his own words.  

After giving Dr. Turner a five minute head start, Sandor climbed from the car and waited as Bronn and Go-Go approached.  The other capos had clamored to get a piece of Vinny, but Sandor had staunchly refused.  As much as he wanted to rip Vinny to pieces himself, and he had almost done so if Alberto had not stopped him, the job needed to be done discreetly. Both Bronn and Alberto had been entirely correct on that tip.  A dozen men piling into a hospital room prior to the patient’s death was hardly the hallmark of discretion.

With only an hour remaining before visitor hours ended, the hospital was blessedly quiet, the activity gearing down for the day as friends and family of the sick and dying began leaving.  The three of them slipped by the information desk in the lobby unnoticed as the two receptionists engaged one another in conversation. 

As they stepped onto the elevator, Sandor’s fingers hovered over the buttons.

“Room 534,” Go-Go informed.  With a nod of the head, Sandor pushed the button for the fifth floor, and the silence resumed between the three of them. 

Sandor had wanted this task to be left between himself and his underboss.  However, Bronn had insisted that there be a third, a capo whom they both trusted.  As it stood, Sandor’s capos were turning traitor on him left and right; first Marco and now Vinny.  He couldn’t help but consider the remaining capos with watchful eyes, taking note of each move they made and every word they spoke.   

On the fifth floor, they were greeted with distracted smiles from the nurse’s station before heading down the hall, out of sight from watchful eyes.  The sterile smell of latex and hospital disinfectant meandered in the air as they approached Vinny’s room situated halfway down the fluorescently lit corridor. 

With the door already cracked open, Sandor pushed into the room quietly, allowing the other two men ahead of him before shutting the door behind them.  With his hands folded across his chest, Vinny was snoring softly as the TV above them played an _I Love Lucy_ rerun.  Despite being in stable condition, the man looked worse for the wear; his skin possessed an ashen pallor, and he seemed to have aged considerably since the last time Sandor saw him.  His throat was bandaged over with thick strips of gauze, and beside him a monitor beeped in steady rhythm as it measured his vitals while an IV drip hovered next to it, the bag half empty. 

Sandor pulled up a chair to the end of the bed as Bronn and Go-Go settled themselves on either side of Vinny.  Despite his slumber, the man must’ve sensed he was no longer alone in his room.  His snoring became increasingly shallow with each breath until it had fully diminished, and his legs began to stir beneath the sheets. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” Bronn greeted as Vinny’s eyes fluttered open.  Initially, the man did not seem to understand what was going on, at least not until he took in full sight of who had come to pay him a visit.  His head turned to the left and then to the right to find Go-Go and Bronn perched next to his bed.  When his gaze finally shifted towards the end of the bed, Vinny sat up as he cast a petrified glance towards the buttons positioned on the side railing of his hospital bed. 

“You try it and your fingers are coming off one by one,” Go-Go threatened as he snatched up Vinny’s wrist before the man could press the nurse’s call button.   

Sandor watched as Vinny blinked hard, his eyes squeezing shut with a pained look on his face before opening them once more to stare towards the end of the bed, cornered and defeated.   

“The look on your face tells me you know why we’re here,” Sandor noted as he eased into the plastic covered chair, elbows situated on the wooden arm rests as he glared at Vinny over steepled fingers. 

Whether the man knew it or not, he gave a tiny shake of his head as he lowered his eyes in what looked like shame.  His body language was transparent, and Sandor saw through every move he made: every shifting of his eyes and every barely discernible twitch of his face.  From his vantage point, Sandor would recognize each lie and every misspoken word.  The man had a story to tell, and Sandor wasn’t leaving until he had heard that tale. 

“Do you know why we’re here?” Sandor leaned forward in his seat as he spoke, his focus unwavering as he methodically fixed his stare on Vinny. 

Cocking his head to the side, Vinny was evaluating Sandor as well, a blood-shot gaze through narrowed eyes.  The mistrust was mutual and a barrier to the truth.  Sandor didn’t have time to painstakingly pick at that barrier.  He needed it to come down in one fell swoop.

“It doesn’t seem like you’re here to see how your old friend is doing,” the man responded on a hoarse voice and a mirthless laugh, the bitterness apparent. 

If that was meant to resurrect the camaraderie that once existed between them, Vinny had grossly missed the mark.  Bronn’s face turned a shade of red Sandor hadn’t quite seen on him before as he grabbed Vinny by the front of his hospital gown and pulled the man’s face inches from his.   

“You’ve got some nerve talking about friendship, you piece of shit,” Bronn seethed perilously.  Vinny sucked in an audible breath and grimaced as a jolt of pain seemed to reverberate through him.  Relenting, Bronn pushed the man away and settled back in his seat. 

“The guy you sent to carry out a hit on me and Sansa had an interesting story to tell before Dorin removed his cock and balls,” Sandor informed blankly as Vinny wheezed on labored breaths.  “Do you know who I’m talking about?”

With his cheeks flushed, Vinny shook his head as he wiped away spittle from his lips. 

“Although you’re not likely to believe it, I don’t know who you’re talking about,” he responded on a weak breath. 

The man had now steadied his eyes on Sandor resolutely, clinging desperately to the last wisps of confidence he possessed.  It was Sandor who now averted his gaze as his next words began to form on his tongue, thick to the point of being suffocating.  He breathed life into them anyway and released them out loud for the first time. 

“I bury my sister the day after tomorrow.  The funeral home told Alberto we couldn’t have an open casket visitation because they couldn’t reconstruct her face to make her look like herself.  They could cover up the fact that she had been torn open and left to bleed out, but she was still unrecognizable after they cleaned her up.”

Spoken matter-of-factly, perhaps to counteract the pain they inflicted, the words still cut sharp as ever as Sandor loosed them from his lips.  Although he had resumed watching Vinny, Sandor could have sworn he saw Bronn visibly wince at the admission.  The cadence of Vinny’s breathing had become erratic, descending once more into sharp intakes of air which were released in audible bursts.  When a sob finally came, Sandor realized the man was crying.  Fat tear drops had welled in his eyes and rolled down his ruddy cheeks.  He was breaking through, Sandor knew.  The man would talk, and yet it enraged Sandor to see Vinny blubbering in front of him, reduced to tears and swiping at his cheeks with the back of his hand.  He had no right to mourn for Mirabelle, to make a mockery out of the tremendous void that had been battered through Sandor’s life and heart by Vinny’s own doing.

Moments passed as both Vinny and Sandor regained composure against grief and ire, respectively.  Sandor traced the grain of the wood on the arm rest with his finger tips, an effort at distraction lest he unleash his fury and devastation on Vinny. 

“When I came into the position I did, the first thing Moriarti told me was that I’d likely die by the hands of one of my own men,” Sandor began again, eyes down turned as his fingers worked over the arm rest in steady motion. “To betray me was one thing.  To betray Mirabelle was another.  Are you happy with how things turned out?”

When Sandor lifted his eyes once more, Vinny was considering him woefully, his lips drawn down into a petulant frown. 

“No.  I…” The man’s response was immediate, and yet he faltered over his words. “I didn’t know.  I swear I didn’t know.  I loved her too.  I _loved_ your sister.  With my neck cut open, I tried to get to her.  I swear it, Sandor.  I tried to stop it.”

The man’s eyes had grown wide to the point of bulging, his body trembling within the confines of his death bed.  He was crying again - heavy tears and theatrical sobs.  Whether it was all put on or not, Sandor didn’t venture to guess.  He did not know this man anymore.  Vincenzo was a stranger to him now, and Sandor did not make a habit out of passing out sympathy to strangers.  There was no room in his life for that and certainly not in his heart. 

“You know what I have to do,” Sandor announced quietly, gripping the arms of the chair as he leveled a portentous stare at the man.   

Vinny met that stare dolefully before closing his eyes and lowering his head.  Silence - mournful and unexpectedly oppressive - invaded the room as Sandor exchanged glances with Bronn and Go-Go in turn. 

“I’ll tell you everything so you can get the bastard who did this,” Vinny avowed, fingers fisting the thin white blanket spread across his stomach.  “All I ask is that I get to see Louisa and Briella one last time.  Just…just to say goodbye.”

The man struggled to say the words as if speaking them manifested the reality of his fate.  He looked to Sandor now with a reverence that hadn’t been there for quite some time.  Only now did Sandor understand it had been absent, slowly whittled away with time in imperceptible shavings.

Sandor gave a small nod of his head to which Vinny seemed to swell with a strange sort of pride, misplaced as it was.  

“Family takes care of family.  Louisa and Briella had nothing to do with any of this.  Will you keep them safe after all of this is said and done?”

Once more, Sandor nodded his head and watched as Vinny studied his hands now folded softly in his lap.  His breathing steadied, and his mouth dangled open as he seemed to trace the events backwards, piecing together all the twists and turns of fate which led him to where he was now. 

“Talk.  We don’t have all fucking night,” Go-Go demanded impatiently.  From where he was positioned at the end of the bed, Sandor could not see the clock, but understood well enough that time was not a luxury they had. 

“I got into some trouble,” Vinny conceded finally.  “I never wanted it to get so out of hand.  Emilio had set up his own rackets in Vegas.”

“I already know that,” Sandor snapped, his eyes widening with his own impatience.  “He informed me of that himself when I was there.  You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”

“He approached me about his gambling rackets and offered for me to be a part of them.  I needed the extra cash, so I agreed.”

“Why would you need extra cash?  You and Louisa are set up pretty damn well,” Bronn broke in, shaking his head in disgust.  It was true.  Vinny was a big earner, and Sandor was generous with his men, understanding that greed was ultimately fruitless in this line of business.  Extra income didn’t mean jack shit six feet under. 

“I was in gambling debt,” Vinny admitted with some hesitance, shame once more apparent.  “Nearly $35,000 worth.  Emilio knew it and told me I could cut a portion of the skim off of his gambling rackets as long as I kept you out of it.” The man motioned his head towards Sandor and began again.  “Emilio needed your connections and wanted to operate out of your card rooms, but he didn’t want to give you a percentage of his profits anymore for running the place.  He was going to give me a smaller cut than he gave you so long as I kept you out of it.”

“He was taking business from me, and you knew it,” Sandor seethed, although he sensed this was hardly the tip of the iceberg.   

“That’s not all of it,” Bronn spoke, glaring daggers through Vinny as he leaned towards the man.  “Your taste was ever so slightly higher than all the others for the jobs you and your crew had been doing.  You were taking extra points, Vinny.”

With a deep sigh, the man nodded his head regretfully.  His cheeks were flushed once more, and his hands now animated each of his words as they gestured in an exaggerated fashion.  Sandor knew Vinny, perhaps, better than all of his other capos.  The man was getting defensive and feeling the steady increase of pressure being put upon him. 

“The profits from Emilio’s deal weren’t enough. Sometimes he’d come through and sometimes he wouldn’t.  I couldn’t always depend on him.” 

Only now did Vinny pay Sandor the courtesy of looking him in the eyes.  Prior to this, the man’s gaze would hover at various points throughout the room in a far off stare, or they would remain steadfast in his lap, his head hung in what Sandor hoped was shame and not cowardice. 

The man’s watery eyes now settled on Sandor, an extensive silence underscoring what the man probably hoped was an attempt at garnering sympathy. 

“I had already taken a second mortgage out on my house.  Louisa and I were looking at foreclosure.  I had to dip into Briella’s college fund.  How do you think that made me feel? Taking from my own daughter.”

Sandor flew to the edge of his seat, his hands gripping the end of Vinny’s bed as he leveled an irate stare onto the man.

“So you took from me instead,” Sandor raged through clenched teeth, trying in earnest to keep his voice down lest a nurse come buzzing in.  “You thought I wouldn’t eventually find out? You’re not telling me shit.  You’re making excuses for how you got into all of this.  I don’t give a fuck about that!  You’re a dead man anyway, so it makes no matter now, Vinny.  Tell me what I want to know.”

Sandor’s breaths were coming ragged - the exertion of staving off the culmination of his rage evident by the sweat now beading on his brow and his knuckles white from gripping the end of the bed with a steady increase of force.

“Marco found out about what I had been doing,” Vinny revealed calmly, although Sandor saw the glint of fear in his eyes. “He called me out on it one night.”

Sandor and Bronn nodded their heads in unison, the missing piece clear, although they had known Marco was a lost cause for some time now.  Admittedly, Sandor wasn’t surprised by the man’s role in all of this, although the sting of Marco’s betrayal was pale in comparison to Vinny’s. 

“How did he find out? He didn’t manage the funds,” Sandor probed. 

“He didn’t know I was taking a larger cut.  He knew about my dealings with Emilio because he himself had been in talks with Emilio.  The man’s uncles are connected to the same cartel the Severelli deal with.” 

“I was set up in Vegas,” Sandor broke in, clarity now shedding its luminance over all the unrevealed connections which had befuddled him. 

Vinny nodded his head somberly before averting his gaze. 

“Marco gave Emilio the heads up as to why you were dropping in on him.  The message was passed along to your brother and his men.  They knew you had the Stark girl with you.” 

“Why?”  It was all Sandor could manage.  He wanted to rage.  He wanted to rip Vinny’s throat open again and watch the man bleed out.  His mind wandered to dark corners and fleeting shadows, the genesis of paranoia.  How many of his other men knew that this was going on? How many more were a part of it?

“Marco wanted into the cartel business, and Emilio was his connection.  He knew it had made the Severelli wealthy men, and he never understood why you never wanted in that business.  The more vocal he got about it, the more he began to convince his crew and some of the other men that under your leadership, the organization was going nowhere.  Marco knew you’d never agree to get our hands in the drug business, so he wanted you, Bronn, and Moriarti taken out.  He was dead set on turning this organization upside down and inside out. It would be a new Era for the Moriarti, or so he said.”

Sandor laughed, although he found no joy in Vinny’s words.  Burying his face in his hands and resting his elbows on his knees, his shoulders shuddered, his head shook, and his mind raced.  When his hands fell away from his face, Sandor felt the weight of Bronn’s eyes on him.  The men exchanged a perplexed glance.  There was nothing truly shocking about the information Vinny was indulging them with.  The bewilderment Sandor felt and now shared with Bronn was a by-product of the profound disappointment he felt at the bottomless depths of betrayal he found himself wading through.     

“The cartel stood to gain a lot by our involvement in their business,” Vinny continued, his use of a collective _‘our’_ not escaping Sandor nor Bronn if the man’s visible grimace was anything to go by.  “Our tiffs with the Severelli were a pain in their ass.  Of course, the greedy bastards weren’t going to turn down a potential business venture with the Moriarti.  When word came through Emilio that Marco wanted in, they were eager to play that card.  However, they weren’t going to touch the Moriarti until an alliance was put in place with the Severelli.  That wasn’t going to happen until the higher-ups of the current Moriarti family were taken out.”

“Gregor.”  His brother’s name was off his lips faster than Sandor could connect all the dots and piece together all the bits of information he had been given throughout this conversation. 

“Gregor was the cartel’s connection to the Severelli and an example of how easily an organization could be turned upside down.  Much like you, your brother’s boss wasn’t keen on the idea of getting involved in the drug business.  You know your brother.  He wasn’t taking no for an answer.  Gian di Carli, the boss of the Severelli, the man Alberto spent many years maintaining a truce with to keep the peace, hasn’t been heard from in weeks.  It’s the same story with the consigliere and a handful of capos.  Your brother strong armed the Severelli into making a deal with the cartel.  Initially, he did this behind di Carli’s back, but the old bastard found out and had a price on Gregor’s head.  The capos ordered to do the deal were left decapitated on di Carli’s doorstep.  A few weeks later, the man himself went missing.  Long story short, the cartel figured Marco could do the same with the Moriarti.”  

“With Gregor’s help, no doubt,” Sandor finished.  It was a truth he had come to bear well before they sought Vinny out.  Regardless, the sting was hardly mitigated.

“Marco needed you gone, needed you out of the picture.  It didn’t matter how.  Gregor shared in that desire.  The cartel saw this as a way to bridge the gap between the Severelli and Moriarti, to forge an alliance and move forward on the deal with Marco.  The agreement was that Marco would finagle a deal to deliver you to Gregor.  It was mutually beneficial on all fronts: Marco gets his deal, the cartel gets their business, and Gregor finally has you to himself.”

“And where do you fit into all of this?” Sandor asked. Vinny’s involvement in the matter was indubitable, and yet the man had skirted the issue.

Vinny paused, gnawing his bottom lip until Sandor was sure it might bleed.  After a few deep breaths, the man summoned his confession, though it did not come easy, it seemed, odd for a man who had already said so much.    

“Marco found out through Emilio that I had been skimming off the top of our profits,” Vinny admitted with difficulty.  “He saw that as his opportunity to get to me.  If I didn’t cooperate with him, Marco was going to tell you about everything I had done.  He promised that the cartel deal would take care of my debts.  He said he would give me a pass, and I could go on the lam.  He used me like he did you.” 

Sandor felt a flush hit his cheeks, the unmistakable precursor to the beast of fury and now, vengeance, which stirred within him and elicited the bloodlust to rise.

“Don’t fucking start with that shit,” Sandor fumed as he lurched forward, catching his weight at the edge of his seat once more.  Lifting an index finger, Sandor pointed at Vinny, his hand quivering against the insatiable urge to rip the man limb from limb.  “You got yourself into this.  He used you because you let him.  Don’t you ever fucking compare yourself to me.  You’re weak.  You’re pathetic.  You were easy prey.”

Vinny flinched and paled as the blood seemed to drain from his face, leaving behind sunken-in eyes and wan cheeks. 

“That’s not all of it.  Tell me about the hit,” Sandor demanded as his fist pounded into the bed.  

“Marco was afraid of retaliation if the hit didn’t go off as planned.  Gregor said he would take care of the blow back, but Marco was still paranoid.  He wanted me as a middle man for the hit.  The money was fronted by the cartel and funneled to me to pay the guys for the job, the guys I was supposed to hire.  They were from some no name off-shoot of the Aryan brotherhood.  It was meant to look random and with no affiliations to the Severelli.  The money paid was more than enough for the skinheads to not ask questions and to just do the job.  If it was botched, then you would be left with a dead end, or so Marco hoped. 

They were supposed to off Bronn and Zulu and then deliver you and Sansa to Gregor.  I kept the hired men informed of what time you were leaving the motel and which direction you’d be heading in.  From there, I don’t know what was supposed to happen.  Marco kept me out of the loop and told me not to worry about it.  I certainly didn’t know Gregor was staked out at Moriarti’s. The only other thing I know was that he had talked to Damian.”

“Why would he need to talk to Damian?” Sandor questioned, brow furrowing in confusion. “The majority of my conversation with him had to do with Ned Stark and what was happening up in Portland.”

Vinny nodded his head, apparently already well aware of what Sandor, Damian, and Bronn had discussed in confidence. 

“Marco reached out to Damian because he wanted to know when you’d be on the move again, and he thought Damian might know. Obviously, I couldn’t provide him with that information at the time, so he paid Damian off for it.  More importantly, though, Marco wanted the Kings to carry out the attempted hit and thought to pull Damian’s connection, but the man refused.  Instead, he led Marco in the direction of the Brotherhood.”

Once more, Sandor was at a loss for words, although he couldn’t quite muster up surprise. Damian’s alliances were constantly shifting, the only predictable component being that the man always aligned himself with whoever was willing to pay him more.  

“Where’s Marco now?” Sandor heard Bronn ask on a weary voice depleted of zeal. 

With a shrug of the shoulders, Vinny shook his head.  Although Vinny clearly hadn’t heard from Marco, Sandor wasn’t willing to jump to the conclusion that the man was somewhere at the bottom of Lake Tahoe sporting cement shoes.  They would deal with Marco later.  For now, there was only one thing left that Sandor needed an answer to.  Leaning forward, he rested his forearms against the end of the bed.

“What happened to my sister, Vinny?”

He already knew the answer.  Why aggravate a festering wound?  Leave it and let it heal, some might say.  Knowledge would not change the outcome but might only suffice to revitalize nightmares and regrets.  It was a self-administered poison, and yet Sandor would drink it down.  He waited for Vinny to speak, his body reacting with each ticking second of the clock behind him.  His palms began to sweat, slick against the arm rest of the chair on which he was gripping, and his heart began to beat loud in his own ears.  Vinny licked his cracked lips, his wheezing breaths accompanied by soft whistling sounds.  When he finally spoke, he did so with eyes closed, relaying the events as they played amongst the darkness of his vision. 

“Our way down to Vegas was going to put us past Moriarti’s on the way.  Mirabelle wanted to stop off there, said she had something for Briella that she wanted to give Louisa at lunch and needed to grab it from the house.  We were ahead of schedule, so I agreed we could make a quick stop.  We didn’t see any cars, and there wasn’t anything to suggest what we were walking into.  When we came in the house, Gregor and his men were there, waiting for you and Sansa.  That must have been the drop off place. 

Your brother was there with three of his men. They were waiting in the great room. Mirabelle saw Gregor first and tried to run, but two of them got to her before she could reach the front door.  Thomas was right there with her, but Gregor put a bullet in the back of his head.  I ran and made it to the kitchen before they caught up to me.  One of the men slit my throat with a kitchen knife and left me there to bleed out.”

As he finished, Vinny opened his eyes and loosed a pair of tears to go trickling down each of his cheeks.  At some point, he wasn’t sure when, Sandor had risen from the chair and now loomed at the end of the bed, hands flat against the mattress as he leaned forward.   

“What happened to her?” he demanded through clenched teeth. 

“I don’t know, Sandor,” Vinny pleaded, his head shaking and eyes pooling with fear.  “I couldn’t see.”  The man’s voice broke as he stared up at Sandor, his skin paling once more.     

“But you heard.  You heard her dying.  It was Gregor who did it.  He took his time with her, didn’t he?”

Biting his bottom lip to cease its quivering, Vinny nodded. 

“And what did you hear, Vinny?  The sounds of Mirabelle screaming and crying.  Did she beg for her life?”

Sandor’s voice was a steady crescendo, every other word eliciting a flinch as Vinny cowered beneath him.  Eyes squeezed shut, the man was clutching at his blanket, pulling it up his body as some feeble sort of protection and comfort. 

 “I didn’t know, Sandor.  I wouldn’t have gone to Moriarti’s if I knew he was there.  I would have never been a part of it.”

Vinny mewled and sobbed, quivered and quaked.  He did not open his eyes.  His body sunk further into the bed, an effort at putting distance between him and Sandor, futile as it was. 

“Who was going to protect her if Bronn and I were out of the picture, you sack of shit? Were you going to protect her, Vinny? You let that monster get to her.  You didn’t see what he did to her, but I did, and so did Bronn.” 

At that, Vinny slowly opened his eyes.  And when he did, he was staring at Bronn, acknowledging what had been taken from that man as well. 

“I’m sorry,” Vinny breathed with a shuddering sob.  As Sandor stood up from the bed, Vinny’s petrified gaze flew to him. “I’m sorry.  Sandor, I’m sorry.”

Over and over, Vinny repeated those words, his final words.  Back and forth, his eyes darted between Sandor and Bronn, perhaps seeking some sort of final atonement for his sins.  In this, he would be denied.  Coming up to the side of the bed, Sandor leaned over Vinny and wrapped his arms around him in an embrace.  Initially, Vinny stilled in his arms, tears stopping abruptly in confusion, only to begin again as he reciprocated the embrace, arms tightly wrapped around Sandor in return. 

For many moments, they stayed like this - clutching to one another as Vinny’s tears saturated the neck of Sandor’s shirt, and the man wheezed his apologies between weakened gasps for air.  Sandor broke the silence as he turned towards Vinny and murmured in his ear.  These were his own final words to this man.   

“What I wouldn’t have given to see Mirabelle one last time, to tell her goodbye.  I’ll keep Louisa and Briella safe the same way you kept my sister safe.  Family takes care of family.  I’ll see you in hell, Vinny.”

With that, Sandor pulled the pillow out from underneath Vinny’s head in one swift motion and pressed it hard to the man’s face, muffling his screaming protests.  On either side, Bronn and Go-Go pinned Vinny’s arms down to the bed. 

Hands gripping the pillow and pressing down as if his life depended on it, Sandor didn’t know quite how long the man writhed within his sheets, his legs twisting violently as he fought against the only promise Sandor had ever made.  He had given Vinny his word on one thing and one thing only - that he would deliver the man to his death, catapult him to the great beyond.  His spoken words were his only bond.

Vinny’s movements became languid and his screams silent until he eventually went still, the heart monitor beside him sounding out a singular, droning tone indicating the task was done.  Sandor tucked the pillow back behind the man’s head and returned his chair to where it was.  When his eyes landed on Bronn, the man gave him a small, expressionless nod of the head.  With that, Sandor, Bronn, and Go-Go slipped from the room and retreated down the hall, passing Dr. Turner on the way as the man rushed to Vinny’s room. 

* * *

"Go-Go. He's the one with the shoulder length blond hair and the goatee, right?" Sansa swiveled her head towards Zulu sitting on the edge of the reclining patio chair next to her.

Running his fingers through the locks of his dark hair, the boy nodded and squinted against the sun as he smiled at her, beads of sweat forming on his brow. Despite being a few shades darker than her, Zulu appeared as though he were melting against the heat of the afternoon sun beating down on them. Sansa smiled back at him gratefully. He didn't have to sit out here with her, but did anyway even though it was obvious he was uncomfortable in the heat.

Zulu had asked her what she wanted to do today, and Sansa had responded almost immediately as she wistfully stared out the window towards the western horizon.  _'I want to drink lemonade and watch the storm come in.'_ He had laughed at that, but rummaged through the pantry and refrigerator anyway, only to come up empty handed except for a bottle of limoncello Carmelita was saving for a cake. Unfazed by the absence of lemonade in their plan, Zulu and Sansa had headed towards the balcony on the second floor, the one which faced the blackening sky in the distance.

"Why do you call him Go-Go?" Sansa queried, lazily stretching her limbs out on the reclining patio chair. Even with her sunglasses on and eyes closed as she soaked up some sun, Sansa could still feel Zulu's eyes on her. It wasn't heavy and encompassing as Sandor's stare always was, but she felt it nonetheless. The space between them would grow dense with a bit of tension until Sansa would shift her gaze towards Zulu, and the boy's eyes would immediately fly to the ground, or his hands, or the sky. Anywhere except her.

"This was before my time," Zulu began, his gaze averted now and with a flush of redness across his cheeks, either from the sun or perhaps a bit of embarrassment. Sansa found it endearing. "But apparently he had this goomah once who he was ashamed to bring around. When he finally did bring her around, he had told the guys that she was a go-go dancer at a swanky club in Las Vegas. A couple weeks later, some of the guys went to a trashy strip club in a town outside of Vegas and saw Go-Go's goomah there on stage. As a way of busting his chops, the guys started calling him Go-Go."

Sansa let out a hearty giggle, a laugh which originated deep in her belly and poured easily from her lips. Although she could not say why she found this bit of information so humorous, she relished the feel of her own laughter. It had been so long since she laughed like this, Sansa realized.  _Not since Sandor and I made pancakes together…_

Her smile waned at that, the visions of that time seeming surreal and dreamlike within her own memory.

"What about Half-Stroke? What's the story behind his name?"

Sansa had made a game out of trying to place the faces and names of Sandor's men together. She only knew a handful of them as she saw them coming and going from the house but found herself growing increasingly curious as to who they all were. Furthermore, it seemed that half of the men went by their given names, whereas the other half had some sort of nickname. Coming up empty handed every time she tried to puzzle out exactly why that was, she decided to grill Zulu about it instead.

Sansa noticed the boy hadn't said anything but was blushing furiously and chuckling to himself as he stared down at his feet. Sansa turned her gaze towards him, a smile forming on her lips.

"What? Tell me!" she whined as she turned on her side towards Zulu, pouting her bottom lip playfully when he finally shifted his eyes towards her.

"Bronn walked in on him once…you know…in the middle of…" Zulu paused, eyeing her expectantly as if she would catch his drift. "He caught him half a stroke in." Gesturing with his hand, Zulu mimicked the motion of a guy jacking off.

Once more, Sansa erupted into laughter, clutching her stomach as tears streamed down her cheeks. At the sight of her descending into a fit of giggles, Zulu laughed too, more in response to her reaction than anything else, it seemed.

"How embarrassing!" Sansa couldn't imagine having to live with a nickname like that. Myranda had always called her "Alice" as a nod to what her friend perceived as naiveté and prudishness. A nickname like "Half-Stroke" was mortifying.

"The guys won't let him live it down, so it's immortalized in his nickname," Zulu explained through a laugh. Once more, he smoothed one hand through his hair. Stealing a glance, Sansa found she liked his hair that way, pushed back in a subtle pompadour, a few stray strands falling into his eyes now and again. It suited him well, and she noted he was rather handsome this way.

"And Marco. Is that is his real name?" Sansa questioned as she traced her memories back to a taller man with dark, wavy hair and cruel eyes. In her first few days with the Moriarti, Sansa had remembered him and the way he would look at her, boring through her with hatred and spitefulness.

"Yeah, that's his real name. No funny nickname for him." Zulu's response was laced with almost indiscernible traces of unease, though Sansa picked up on them well enough. With her curiosity piqued, she delicately prodded further, careful not to strike any chords of disconcert.

"I haven't seen him around lately. Whatever happened to him?"

Zulu visibly tensed, pulling in a breath before his lips sealed shut in a tense line, damming all the words he wasn't supposed to say. By his reaction, Sansa knew she was dancing in that delicate middle ground between knowing too much and knowing nothing at all. Mirabelle had once told her to pick a side; know everything or know nothing. Sandor seemed to prefer for her to know nothing, and she trusted his judgment on that. Observant by nature, though, Sansa wanted to know more, if only to quell her curiosity and answer all the stray questions she had whizzing about her mind.

"I don't know," Zulu responded with a shrug and sigh. He wasn't lying, she could tell, but rather offering a convenient truth. He may not know where Marco was anymore, but that wasn't the entirety of his knowledge on the matter.

She wanted to know more and had, at various points, asked questions, most of which Zulu answered. Lately, though, his answers had become a bit more cryptic and overall less informative. They were packaged answers, the details boxed up neatly and given to all the women as a sort of consolation.

In recent days, the Moriarti mansion had become a sort of safe haven for the members of the organization. Whereas before made men and their families seemed to trickle in and out, they were now staying indefinitely for the time being. Taking note of this, Sansa had asked Zulu about it. It was then he had explained the term "going to the mattresses".

_'It means war, Sansa. War with another family. The made men and their families come together and stay in the same place to ensure everyone's safety. Individuals are less likely to be targets that way.'_

She could have guessed as much. Sansa knew something was happening. The men had been coming in droves to the house, all seeming equal parts anxious and resolved towards some purpose unknown to her. She had asked Zulu then if they were fighting the people who had killed Mirabelle and Thomas and who had also left Vinny hospitalized. Somberly, he had nodded his head in response and quickly changed the subject.

Sansa had thought to ask exactly who was behind the attacks on Mirabelle, Thomas, and Vinny, as well as who wanted her and Sandor dead. She already knew the answer as did everyone else, though no one dare say it. Sandor's brother was a monster; she had seen him herself and knew it to be true. Most of everything else she knew about Gregor was things Mirabelle had told her.

Sandor never spoke much of his brother, and yet she was privy to the monstrosities Gregor had committed. Whether or not those were secrets Sandor would have shared with her one day, Sansa would never know. The man seemed to guard many secrets - deep, dark, and all equally as haunting. She shuddered to think that soon Sandor would be facing his brother, and with this thought, felt a horrible twinge of both sadness and fear ripple through her. Her heart ached at the thought that she and Sandor might not truly reconcile before he went to find his brother. She did not know much as to what was going on, but she did know one thing: only one Clegane brother would live through the ordeal.

Zulu had gone quiet next to her, mindlessly weaving and unweaving his fingers as his elbows rested on his knees. A tremendous somberness was shared between them now as both of their thoughts - private and unspoken - weighed heavily on each of their respective minds.

"What about you?" Sansa softly spoke, dispersing the uneasy silence. "Why are you called Zulu?"

Grateful for the interruption from his thoughts, or so it seemed, Zulu lifted his eyes to the western sky, evaluating the thick, ashen column of clouds gathering over the mountain range far off in the distance.

"Have you ever heard the phrase 'Bravo Zulu'?" he asked. Furrowing her brow, Sansa shook her head.

"It was naval slang meaning 'well done'. When I first became a made man, no one really seemed to know my real name. I sort of hung by myself, kept my head down, and did what was asked of me. Bronn would always say 'Bravo Zulu' when he would see me, I guess because he had heard I was doing a good job. Eventually, he just started calling me Zulu and it caught on."

Sansa nodded, biting her bottom lip against the question bubbling up from within her.

"What's your real name?" she asked with a bit of hesitance which was seemingly well placed as Zulu tensed. He hadn't told her much about his background, he himself holding onto many secrets as well. "I'm sorry," she blurted out. "You don't have to tell me."

With the corner of his mouth pulling into a half-smile, Zulu seemed to waver as his gaze roamed the sky once more before finally settling on Sansa.

"I'll tell you, but you can't call me by my real name."

Sansa nodded in reply. It was a reasonable request and necessary as well. It wouldn't bode well for her to go around calling him by his real name while most of the made men only knew him as Zulu.

"Emory. My real name is Emory," he informed shyly. In all the days she had spent with him, this was the first bit of personal information about himself that he had revealed.

"Emory," she repeated through a beaming smile. "I like it. It suits you."

Zulu matched her eyes, holding her gaze for many long moments before eventually letting his eyes fall away. Feeling her heart beating faster, Sansa did the same and cast a stare towards the west. Above them was a pristine blue sky, unsullied by hardly even a few wisps of stray clouds. The sun was warm, if not oppressive. Yet far to the west a storm was gathering in the desert beyond the bulging expanse of a mountain range. Sansa had seen the incipient plumes of graying clouds just this morning and had immediately felt an urge to watch this particular storm come in.

In her mind, she envisioned the way in which it might roll over the mountains, barreling towards the desert with the promise of much needed rain. All throughout the morning and the early afternoon, she had caught glimpses of the horizon, noting the fickle way in which the color and shape of the storm front seemed to alter with time. Now, the horizon had grown an eerie black color, tinged with greens and grays on the periphery.

"When do you think it will get here?" Sansa pondered.

"Tonight," Zulu responded definitively yet without the precursor of much thought. He seemed to know already when it would be on top of them, replacing pristine skies with unsettled ones.

"I like thunderstorms," Sansa mused quietly in response. "In Portland, we get a lot of rain but not so many thunderstorms."

"Why do you like them so much?" Although posed plainly enough, Sansa couldn't help but sense a bit of incredulousness in Zulu's question, his eyes considering her with interest.

Shrugging her shoulders, Sansa offered what truth she could, although she didn't quite know the answer, never taking the time to put what she felt into words. Lifting her eyes to the western sky, she spoke freely, words echoing the sentiment she found in her heart.

"Everything feels electric and visceral when there's a storm, almost like the senses are heightened in ways they aren't normally. Everything is in flux - calm then chaotic. They're beautiful, almost mesmerizing, to look at - the colors, lights, and movement. It's like you want to be a part of it, but you know it's dangerous and could hurt you. It's enthralling and scary at the same time."

The words spilled out of her, nonsensical to her own ears, and Sansa could not say with certainty if she was talking exclusively about thunderstorms or perhaps something else, a secret within her own heart. When she met Zulu's eyes once more, he did not smile as he was apt to do, and he did not look away from her either. Instead, he stared at her as if she herself had embodied her own description of a storm, seeming equally as enthralled as he was fearful of her.

"I'm melting out here," he murmured as he cast a cursory glance towards the sun now falling towards the west, racing to meet the blackened clouds head on only to be extinguished by the coming darkness.

"Yeah. I think I've had enough too," Sansa agreed as she sat up from the patio chair and lifted herself to her feet, stretching as she went.

She followed Zulu inside, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head as they made their way down the hall and towards the main stair case. As they approached the top of the stairs, Alberto was heading towards them. Immaculately dressed in a crisp, white button-down shirt and a pair of creased black pants supported by suspenders, the man stood before them with a surprised, if not relieved, smile on his lips.

"Sansa. I was just coming to find you," he said as he made his way up the remaining stairs. "I was wondering if you had a moment."

Nodding her head, Sansa folded her hands in front of her. With a pair of blue jean shorts and a tank top, she suddenly felt underdressed as Mr. Moriarti approached her. Cleanly shaven and smelling of freshly applied cologne, it seemed the man was already prepared for the night ahead.

"I do," Sansa responded before turning towards Zulu. "I'll see you later." The boy nodded in response before heading down the stairs.

When they were alone, Alberto offered Sansa his arm.

"Walk with me. I have something to show you."

Sansa stared up at him, more than likely appearing perplexed, but as he smiled warmly at her, she looped her arm in his, residual apprehension falling away. The man led her back towards the same corridor from which she had just come except they continued further down the hallway, passing rooms on their left and right which Sansa had never ventured into before.

"Are you sure you're comfortable with coming tonight?" Alberto inquired forthrightly although with sincere concern.

The question seemed odd to her, if only because the answer was obvious, at least in her mind. Tonight was Mirabelle's visitation, the beginning of a few days worth of events that everyone seemed to collectively dread. Putting her to rest somehow made the ordeal all the more real. However, Sansa had been one of the few who had seen the horrific end that had befallen Mirabelle Clegane. The others would remember the woman as she was when she was alive, a blessing Sansa wished for Sandor and Bronn, although it was for naught.

"Yes. I'm positive," Sansa affirmed. "I miss her, Alberto. I didn't know her as well as everyone else, but I do miss her."

With one hand resting on Sansa's forearm, the man gave a tiny squeeze as he sighed.

"Mirabelle was very fond of you as well, Sansa. We all miss her terribly."

The matter was dropped after that, and Sansa slowly followed along with Alberto as he led her to a part of the house she had never been before. Her explorations during one of her first nights here had been fruitless and landed her squarely in a dark hallway with Sandor. She feared him then and believed him to be a monster.

"I remember the first night you came to us," Alberto mused with a smile as he cast his gaze towards her. "Of course, I wish that the circumstances would have been much different. Sandor called you a little bird. Do you remember that?"

With her memories once more pulled back to her first days here, Sansa nodded her head.

"I remember," she said flatly.

Initially, he had used that name to mock her. He had been cruel to her, insensitive to her predicament, uncommunicative as to why she was there. Long and sleepless nights, Sansa would lie awake and ponder his reasons why. Why didn't he just tell her from the start why he had taken her? Why didn't he tell her she was in danger and he had thought to save her? Why didn't he tell her what  _truly_ happened at the Royce party? She never did find her answers. Yet another secret Sandor was content to hold onto.

"Do you remember what prompted him to give you that moniker?" Alberto pressed further, although Sansa did not understand why any of this was a topic of conversation. It all seemed so long ago and, perhaps, a bit irrelevant now.

"I do. It was in reference to the fact that I was supposed to study music and dance at the University of Oregon." Little bird was now a term of endearment, somewhere along the line becoming Sandor's way of comforting her rather than taunting her.

"You  _will_ study music and dance at the University of Oregon, Sansa." Alberto had stopped and now turned towards Sansa, his words spoken decisively and with a zeal that left her bemused as well as a bit touched.

"Just the other day that memory popped into my head," he continued, once more resuming their amble down the hallway. "It's funny how memories work when you get older. I cannot always remember what I ate for breakfast yesterday or where I placed my reading glasses, but sometimes memories from years, or in this case a month, ago come to me as if they happened just yesterday."

Sansa nodded her head as she and Alberto stopped in front of a door at the end of the hall. The man's hand rested on the door knob as he turned to her.

"It is my wish, and Sandor's too, that you feel comfortable and looked after while you are with us."

With that, Alberto slowly opened the door and led Sansa inside of the room. On the wall furthest from them was a row of windows, the sun peering in and filling the room with warmth. In the furthest corner was a baby grand piano, glossy black and with the lid propped open. Beyond that, the room was mostly empty, a few boxes throughout and a small bookshelf with random pages of sheet music.

Sansa felt the smile spreading across her face, originating at the corners of her lips and lifting until she could feel it in her cheeks. Eagerly, she followed Alberto across the room, glowing as she went.

Sitting down, Alberto slid across the piano bench to make room for Sansa, his fingers ghosting the keys which responded in soft, plinking sounds.

"It may be just a bit out of tune, but I wanted you to know it's here and for you to use whenever you want. This could be your music room."

With a smile spreading across his own lips, Alberto cast a glance about the open space, seemingly imagining what it could become and finding joy in those visions.

"This means a lot to me, Alberto," Sansa beamed as she turned towards him, speechless despite her gratefulness. "Thank you."

The man nodded his head with a chuckle as his hands took their position on the keys. His fingers moved deftly, dancing along as he slowly closed his eyes and played a tune Sansa was vaguely familiar with.

"You play," Sansa spoke, something between a statement and a question.

"I know a few songs I've learned over the years."

The man smiled, nostalgia beckoning the fondness Sansa saw coloring his demeanor. To her surprise and delight, Alberto began to sing, his voice smooth and velveteen much like his speaking voice. Awestruck, she watched as Alberto sang, the music transporting him into some refuge within himself, a place where all the man had to do today was sit on a piano bench next to her and sing to his heart's content. The world outside the room - dark and with a storm approaching - had melted away, staved off with each note.

"It's a Sinatra tune," Alberto informed with a faint smile after he finished, staring down fondly at the keys. "I used to sing it to Francesca. It was part of how I wooed her."

"Are you trying to woo me, Mr. Moriarti?" Sansa giggled as she elbowed him playfully. At that, the man threw his head back and laughed heartily, the corners of his eyes crinkling as they glinted with moisture.

"I wouldn't dare, but I can sure as hell see why he loves you."

The words hit Sansa with a force she would have never expected; they were spoken so plainly and effortlessly, with the same ease as if Alberto had said them often. There was no weightiness to them, and they were not muddled with the complexities of emotion that often accompanied the corresponding sentiment of love. It was love in the way a man like Alberto Moriarti might recognize it; pure because it's true, and simple because it exists without question, without prompt. It just  _is._

Rendered speechless by Alberto for the second time today, Sansa watched as he lifted himself to his feet and retreated back across the room, turning towards her when he reached the door.

"Enjoy, my dear," was all he said before leaving.

* * *

 

On the ride to Mirabelle's visitation later that evening, Sansa sat quietly next to Zulu, her head resting against the window as her eyes fixated on the western sky. Lightening rippled here and there through the expanse of black clouds, illuminating them in hues of purple. They were heading south in the middle of what appeared to be a caravan of mourners, perhaps the very definition of a funeral procession. However, this was the way in which the Moriarti family moved these days - as a collective whole, those straying not guaranteed protection and stepping out at their own risk.

Sansa had seen some of the women gathering in the kitchen before the designated departure time. Although the mood was decidedly somber, many were not deterred from donning heels, adorning themselves in jewels, and meticulously styling their hair. By comparison, Sansa appeared to be attending a different event entirely. She wore no jewelry and left her hair to dry naturally in waves, brushing it out until it shined. Her makeup was simple as was her dress - falling a few inches above her knees, quarter sleeves, and the obligatory black.

On the way out the door, Sansa had not seen Sandor, Bronn, or Alberto, the three of them apparently having left before all the others. She rode with Zulu and another young made man, one who chatted from the backseat. The drive was uneventful, a blessed departure from the last occasion where Sansa was in a car and traveling for a length of time.

They arrived unscathed at the funeral home situated outside of Las Vegas. Despite being newly raised, or so it seemed, the building held the façade of being old: the brick appearing distressed, the windows flanked with shutters, and a columned overhang framing large mahogany doors with inlays of leaded glass. Although beautiful, the building was an anachronism in the desert, appearing out of place considering the grounds were surrounded by palm trees, the tops of which were swaying with each rising gust of wind. As Sansa stepped from the car, her eyes surveyed the parking lot, finding it nearly full of vehicles. Men, women, and the occasional brood of children shuffled from the parking lot towards the front doors, all dressed in their Sunday best and clutching umbrellas as a preempt against the coming rain.

With her hands holding the skirt of her dress down as it whipped against the breeze, Sansa followed along with Zulu and the other made man across the parking lot towards the entrance.

Beyond the tiled foyer illuminated with an ornate chandelier, the lobby was a large open area, decorated elegantly. It wasn't a garish attempt at honoring the deceased by filling the space with a veneer of fineries - expensive looking lamps, elaborately detailed wallpaper and such. It was beautiful in a refined way: small vases of fresh cut flowers on wooden tables, well-placed winged back chairs, and soft lighting hanging from above.

They continued towards the end of the open area, past a small vestibule and a corridor with restrooms and lounge, to a visitation room in the back which seemed the center of activity as mourners trickled in and out. The inside of the room was astir as clusters of people meandered about, maneuvering past tufted white chairs placed about the perimeter of the open space. Much like the open lobby area, the visitation room was tastefully decorated, the furniture and various accoutrements passing for something one might find in an antique store or perhaps their grandmother's living room. The far wall was ornamented with crimson drapes, creating the focal point surrounding Mirabelle's casket. Never before had Sansa seen so many floral arrangements gathered in one room - originating from the casket and spreading about the space along the walls with colorful and elaborate arrangements of flowers. The room was a veritable garden, perhaps every species of flower finding representation tucked amongst complimentary shapes and colors.

Still hovering next to the door, Sansa saw that Zulu had wandered off to greet a few of the men standing against one of the walls. With her hands tucked in front of her, Sansa made her way towards Mirabelle's casket with uncertain steps, each one feeling heavier and more difficult than the last. As she finally approached, Sansa lowered herself onto the kneeling bench, her eyes staring down at the opalescent detailing of the white casket.

With her hands folded in front of her in prayer, Sansa cleared her mind and closed her eyes. The words did not come. It seemed every night she had prayed to Mirabelle in some way, conversing with her memory as she heard Bronn's muffled cries on the other side of the wall. Only now, she felt a solemn disconnect, the realization that her words were spoken to a casket sealed shut. Sansa prayed anyway. She prayed that Mirabelle had finally found a release from fear and pain. She prayed for peace for Sandor, that his torment would soon find its remedy, if not a complete end. She prayed for Bronn, that his heart might heal with tears and time.

Lifting herself to her feet, Sansa smoothed down the skirt of her dress and quietly retreated from Mirabelle's casket. When she turned around, Sansa's gaze immediately settled on Sandor in the back of the room, his height giving him away as he conversed with an elderly couple Sansa did not recognize. With one wrinkled hand resting on Sandor's upper arm, the old woman dabbed at tears in her eyes while the old man, presumably her husband, wrapped an arm around her shoulder as he shook his head.

Dressed in a black, button-down shirt tucked into black pants, Sandor's hair was neatly pulled back from his face. He appeared leaps and bounds better than when she had seen him last; the dark circles under his eyes had all but disappeared, his skin had returned to a healthy pallor, his cheeks no longer gaunt and ashen. Although Sansa still saw the hurt in his eyes, the pain no longer appeared an inexorable force. Rather, Sandor seemed to manage it for now as he offered tense smiles to the well-wishers who approached him.

The old woman wrapped her arms around Sandor in a tight embrace and patted him on the cheek before the couple moseyed away.

Sansa watched as Sandor shoved his hands in his pockets and his gaze shifted across the room, surveying the clusters of people still gathered in various corners and spaces. When his eyes reached her, she saw him pull in a breath and his countenance seemed to soften, his smile no longer tense as it pulled across his lips, and relief visibly washed over him as he stared at her wonderstruck.

In steady steps, he moved towards her, all but ignoring Bronn who had approached him. With his eyes intent on her, Sansa felt her heart beat rise within her chest, the din of the room falling away to a whisper as he came ever nearer. Her hands shook, though she bid them not to, and her knees wobbled as she took a step towards him.

"Hi," was all he seemed to manage when he approached her, still with a smile and still with his hands tucked in his pockets.

"Hi." It was all she could manage too, and even still her voice quivered from her lips on just that single, drawn out syllable. Lifting her eyes to his, Sansa smiled in return and felt a slow, steady flush spreading about her cheeks. Although scarcely a foot of space separated them, she wanted to reach out and touch him, to be held by him, to embrace him in return. Those same urges seemed to grip Sandor as he pulled his hands free from his pockets but stopped short before traversing the distance between them.

"I don't think I've told you this yet, but I'm so sorry about what happened to Mirabelle, Sandor." She reached for his hand, taking it in her own and wrapping her fingers around his. Although she could not say for sure, Sansa could have sworn she felt his hand tremble too, shaking along with hers.

"I know, little bird," he breathed, interlacing his fingers in hers and giving a soft squeeze. "I know. Thank you. That means a lot to me." It was simple, really; connected only by their interlacing fingers, and yet the contact left her awash with all those strange and profoundly transcendent feelings only Sandor knew how to evoke.

"You look better," Sansa spoke softly as she cut a shy glance towards him. "Are you taking care of yourself?"

With a low chuckle, Sandor nodded his head.

"I'm trying to, yes. You look beautiful as always."

Sansa smiled at that and felt herself blush once more, this time accompanied with a familiar heat creeping through her. Sandor was staring at her, studying her eyes, her face, her lips, the flush to her cheeks. She had seen him look at her like this before, admiring and adoring.

"Thank you," she replied breathlessly, the butterflies congregating in her stomach as she stared up at him. Sansa saw the longing fracture through his eyes, chipping away at his resolve and bringing him closer to her. With their bodies almost flush with one another, Sandor lifted his other hand to rest against the side of her face, his thumb brushing across her cheek bone as she leaned into his touch.

"I would really like for us to talk," he intoned with sincerity. "I mean,  _really_  talk, Sansa. When we're alone, without all these people here…watching us." Sandor's gaze flickered over one of his shoulders as he cast a glance around the room. It wasn't until Sansa did the same that she saw eyes on both of them - curious eyes which seemed to peer and pry into their exchange. Prior to that, she hadn't noticed. They might as well have been alone for all she could tell, everything else had seemed so far away.

Smiling up at him timidly, Sansa nodded her head, her movement eliciting Sandor's own smile and a relieved sigh to escape his lips. Somehow, Bronn had manifested next to them, trepidation clear as he fell in next to Sansa's side.

"I'm sorry to interrupt. The funeral director needs to speak with you," Bronn informed as he motioned his head to the undertaker standing a few feet behind Sandor with Alberto by his side. Sandor's jaw seemed to tense, and his eyes narrowed with a bit of annoyance as he turned his head over his shoulder.

"Excuse me. This will only take a few minutes," Sandor grumbled before giving Sansa a half smile and retreating away.

She watched as Sandor made his way across the room, stopped here and there by people tearfully and sincerely offering their condolences which he seemed to receive gratefully. When he approached Alberto and the funeral director, he was immediately engaged in conversation, one which appeared to be important and likely to take more than just a few minutes. Seeing her opportunity to run to the bathroom, Sansa slipped from the room and headed back towards the front of the lobby where the restrooms were located.

Only upon reaching the bathroom stall and locking the door behind her did Sansa release the breath she seemed to have been holding. Her heartbeat slowed to its normal pace, and her hands had ceased their incessant trembling. After a few moments in the stall, Sansa heard the door to the restroom open and the sound of footsteps maneuver in front of the sink, heels clicking against the tile floor. The sound of a woman humming filled the small, incandescently lit bathroom. When Sansa flushed the toilet, the woman's tune stopped, apparently startled that she was not alone. Opening the stall door, Sansa's eyes settled on the mirror in front of her which held the reflection of a woman she immediately recognized. With bleach blonde hair and a dress only slightly less skimpy from the last one Sansa had seen her wear, the woman who had shamelessly fawned over Sandor at Thomas' funeral was standing in front of the mirror.

The woman must have recognized her as well. She had been fixing her hair, her fingers tousling the curls and working through tangles. Her movements ceased when she caught Sansa's reflection hovering just outside the stall.

As Sansa walked forward to the sink and turned on the faucet, her eyes flickered to the blonde haired woman once more despite her internal protests not to. The space between them was rife with tension - a powder keg which could be ignited with something as small as a sideways glance. By the time Sansa averted her stare back towards the sink, it was too late.

"What?" the woman snapped, glaring at Sansa through the mirror as a tube of lipstick hovered over her lips, the color a hideous shade of hot pink.

"I didn't say anything," Sansa responded as she dipped her hands beneath the running water and lathered up soap in her palms. With her head down, she was content to ignore this woman and deny her the satisfaction of having some sort of show down in a funeral home bathroom of all places.

Turning off the faucet, Sansa shook her hands to remove the droplets of water which clung to her skin and pulled free a few paper towels from the dispenser on the wall. As she dried her hands, Sansa saw the woman dart around her and firmly root herself in front of the bathroom doorway, staring Sansa down with her hands on her hips.

"Look, if this is about the fact that I fucked the object of your little school girl fantasy, you're just going to have to get over it." The woman flippantly bobbed her head back and forth as she spoke, one manicured finger gesturing towards Sansa.

Pulling in a deep breath, Sansa thought to walk away from this situation, to gain the upper hand by refusing an exchange of words with this woman who reeked of cheap perfume and stale cigarette smoke. However, as Sansa tried to move past her, the woman held out her arm, blocking Sansa's path.

For the first time, Sansa was face-to-face with another female, adrenaline rushing through her veins as the woman took steps towards her. She had never once had a run in with another woman like this. Myranda Royce, on the other hand, was constantly having petty showdowns with other girls and the subject matter, without fail, revolved around boys. This wasn't about a boy, though; a boy one or the other would forget about in the coming weeks as they moved on to the next one. This was about a man: a man who this woman would not be taking no from, a man she was clearly fixated on. It was a maniacal sort of desperation Sansa sensed from this woman, dangerous because of its unpredictability and the pure insanity it would descend into if push came to shove.

Despite this, Sansa couldn't help the small exhale of laughter which escaped her lips as she shook her head and rolled her eyes, flippant in her own right.

"You didn't sleep with him," Sansa remarked calmly, guessing her words would incite a defensive reaction from the woman.

"And how the hell would you know that?" the blonde haired woman bellowed, the tip of her acrylic nail digging into Sansa's chest. "You don't know jack shit about the things I've done to that man in between the sheets. He and I go way back, so don't even start with me, bitch."

With that, the woman pulled her finger away and crossed her arms about her chest, glowering as she settled back on her heels.

This woman was apparently content to battle Sansa over a man who was no longer interested. Although not combative by nature, Sansa wasn't a push-over either and certainly wasn't going to tolerate this woman speaking to her in this manner.

"You're right," she countered, leveling an unwavering stare onto the woman. "I don't know about your history with Sandor because not once has he ever mentioned you in our conversations. Odd considering all the purported nostalgia between the two of you."

The woman looked as though she was about to say something as her face darkened with shades of crimson. Cutting the woman off, Sansa continued, maintaining a steady reserve as the woman seemed to catapult further into anger.

"I take that back. He did mention you just once, now that I think about. He told me he didn't sleep with you the other day, the reason being because you aren't me. His words, not mine."

At that, the woman's temper had reached a fever pitch, seemingly spurred on by the way Sansa remained even-keeled and undeterred.

"Ride around on your fucking high horse all you want," the woman seethed. "But there will come a day when you'll realize he's just a womanizer. You're a novelty to him: young and innocent. He'll fuck you and, then he'll be on to the next one, sweetie."

The woman was exerted by the time she finished, breathing heavily as she continued to glare at Sansa while waiting for a response. Sansa said nothing initially, but rather furrowed her brow as she shook her head.

"Is there something you don't understand about what I just said?" the woman taunted with condescension.

"Yes, there is," Sansa replied as she stepped towards the woman now, lowering her voice as she met the woman's eyes. "I don't understand how insecure - or stupid, for that matter - a woman would have to be to come around after she's already been rejected by a man who clearly isn't interested in her. Despite my youth and innocence, even I know better than that."

With that, Sansa pushed past the woman, turning her head over her shoulder as she reached the door.

"You've got lipstick on your teeth…sweetie," Sansa spoke through a saccharine smile before pulling the door open and leaving the restroom.

Sansa had made it only halfway down the corridor when she heard a commotion coming from the lobby area. At first it was gasps which then gave way to women screaming and men shouting. Suspended in place as a cold chill trickled down her spine and rendered her legs unmovable, she let a whimper escape her lips as it eased past the lump forming in her throat.  _No. No. Not again. Please not again._

Unable and unwilling to move, Sansa saw as people rushed towards the front of the lobby, wide-eyed with fear as they gained a glimpse at whatever was unfolding there. She tried to speak when she saw Sandor heading towards the lobby in long strides, eyes darting between the people. When his stare finally landed on her still frozen with fear in the corridor outside the bathroom, Sandor stopped where he was before rushing towards her, measurable relief flooding his face.

"Sansa." Her name sighed off his lips, quivering with a bit of residual fear - fear for  _her_ she realized now.

Bolting towards him, she met him halfway and was pulled into his arms as they reached one another. Sansa pressed her cheek against his chest as he wrapped her up in an embrace, holding onto her soundly as his eyes scoured the lobby area.

The crowd of people had backed away, and silence now fell over lobby. There, just inside the front doors was the body of a man, dressed to the nines in an immaculately pressed tuxedo and patent leather shoes. His dark, wavy hair had been slicked back away from his face, and his eyes, which once considered Sansa with cruelty, were swollen shut. She squeezed her eyes closed after catching only a glimpse of the rest of his face. A bloody, gaping hole was left where his mouth once was, a gunshot wound although the man had no gun. It seemed Marco had been left here, the fatal shot having been delivered somewhere else.

As the silence passed, the lobby erupted into chaos once more. With a hand at the back of her head, Sandor held Sansa in his arms and turned them away so that she could no longer see the gruesome scene. Pulling away slightly, he cupped her cheeks in both of his hands, staring down at her gravely. He had paled, his eyes creasing with worry as they shifted between Sansa and the group of his men which were rushing towards the scene.

She understood his dilemma - his unwillingness to let her go even as his duties called to him now as his men ushered people away. Clinging to Sandor as her arms encircled him tightly, Sansa saw as Zulu approached them, the blood drained from his face as well.

"I'll take care of her, sir. Some of the men are taking the women back to Moriarti's," Zulu informed solemnly.

With her head against his chest, Sansa could feel the rhythm of Sandor's breathing increase as he stared at Zulu, considering the boy's offer as his dilemma waged on. Taking her face in each of his hands once more, Sandor pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Go with Zulu, little bird," he urged gently and in quiet tones, as if the words were meant to exist between the two of them alone.

Burying her head against his chest, Sansa was reluctant to let him go, every fiber of her being fighting to stay within Sandor's protection and rooting her where she stood.

"You'll be safe with him," Sandor assured, although she wasn't certain who he was trying to convince, her or himself. "I can't say the same about being here until I know what's going on."

Sansa gave a small nod of the head and felt Sandor pull away from her reluctantly, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. She watched as he began towards the front of the lobby, stopping in front of Zulu before continuing on. The two did not exchange words but only a look, one which communicated more than what could be spoken. Zulu averted his gaze towards her, and Sansa saw as Sandor's jaw tensed as he followed Zulu's eyes, his own eyes seeming to harden in response. Sandor looked to her once more before heading away towards the front of the lobby.

Sansa followed Zulu out a side door of the building, bypassing the front altogether as Sandor began giving orders to his men. In the parking lot, men who had come with their families were returning to cars, consoling the wives and children as best they could. It was an organized sort of pandemonium, everyone springing into action, and yet no one knew what exactly was going on. Sansa climbed back into Zulu's car, another made man and his goomah riding in the back seat with them.

By the time they reached the highway, the storm had finally reached them as sheets of pounding rain fell from the sky. Lightning burst on both sides of the road, the night illuminated in flashes every other second, or so it seemed. Despite being inside the car, Sansa could still hear the booming of thunder outside as they raced back north. Zulu gripped the steering wheel tightly as his eyes found singular focus on the road ahead.

Every second spent in the car felt like a lifetime to Sansa as she expected the worst, perhaps a repeat of what had happened on their way back from California. There was safety in numbers, she reminded herself, remembering that a dozen or so cars were all heading in the same direction as them, though that thought did little to quell the fear she felt.

When they eventually pulled into the half circle drive of Moriarti's, Sansa waited for relief to come and for the fear to flee. They had reached their destination intact, yet she knew better than to assume that meant they were in the clear. On the contrary, her misgivings were exacerbated as she stepped from the car and bolted along with the others towards the front door as the rain came down in droves upon them. One by one, those who had fled from the funeral home made it inside, dripping wet from rain. Sansa's hair was saturated and her dress soaked in patches. As the others dispersed, she retreated upstairs with Zulu trailing behind her.

She hesitated at the door of the room she stayed in, her hand settling on the handle as she turned towards him.

"Do you want to be alone?" Zulu asked before Sansa could say anything. As a flash of lightning pierced through the dimness of light they found themselves in, Sansa could see now the way Zulu had tensed as he awaited her answer, lips parted as he pulled in tattered breaths and considered her with anxious eyes. A few moments later, thunder pounded through the house, the walls rattling with the force.

With Zulu's question, unbidden visions of Marco's face - bloody and disfigured - flashed across Sansa's mind. She was almost certain that she would not be gifted with uninterrupted sleep tonight. Rather, these visions seemed the precursor to nightmares, the promise of a fitful slumber which would likely result in her awaking in a start with a cold sweat seeping from her body. She found no joy in the prospect of being alone. However, something was altered between her and Zulu, something she could not quite place but had tuned into nonetheless. It was her internal and intuitive acknowledgment of this which stilled Sansa's lips and stymied the words on her tongue.

"Are you alright?" he finally queried, breaking through the silence as he gently gripped her shoulders.

"I don't really know what to think of all of this," Sansa responded with a shake of her head. Perhaps it wasn't for her to know, and as such, the days would keep coming, men and their families would trickle in and out, and still Sansa would be left with unanswered questions weighing heavy on both her mind and heart. She could push them away all she wanted, but in the midnight hour they always came back to her, sometimes seeing her well into the darkness just before dawn.

She lifted her eyes to Zulu, finding his gaze was already on her. His lips parted once more, and half a word caught on the back of his throat as if he meant to say something but decided against it.

"What is it?" Sansa prodded quietly.

He was staring at her with a look she had seen before but from a different man. He was looking at her the way Sandor looked at her. It was the longing which was familiar to her - the urgency of affection, the hunger which dictated action without thought, movement without reasoning. When Zulu's lips met hers before she could speak again, his kiss also held the ghost of familiarity to it too, but this was a different sort of familiarity. Zulu's tongue danced across her lips, bidding them to part and gaining passage as Sansa gasped in surprise. With one arm wrapped around the small of her back and the other at the base of her neck, he was pulling her into him with a desperate need to close the distance between them.

Sansa's hands slinked into the small crevice of space between her and Zulu, pressing against his chest as she pushed him away gently. Eyes wide and lips still parted, Zulu shook his head slightly, bewildered, it would seem.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, his voice hardly above a whisper. Running his fingers through the strands of his hair, Zulu was internally at odds, the battle waging within him as he staved off urges which he would ultimately have to deny himself. Sansa watched as determination and perhaps frustration seized his countenance as his gaze steadied on her.

"You know what? No, I'm not. I'm not sorry." He spoke with a fervor, no longer with timid hesitation or quiet reserve. Reaching out, he grasped Sansa by the shoulders once more as if to infuse her with understanding - to make her see all that he wanted her to see, to understand all that he felt, and to reciprocate it with an intensity which matched his.

"I'd be good to you," he avowed earnestly, pulling her closer to him. "I could love you, Sansa. I would protect you. I would take you away from all of this."

She knew he meant it, every word spoken truly and with every intention on proving his merit. Perhaps that was what beckoned the tears to pool in her eyes and spill over her cheeks. Her heart ached; for him, for her, for Sandor, for her mother, for her father, for Mirabelle, for everyone she had lost, and everyone who had come into her life and now meant something to her. Zulu was offering her everything she needed. Inexperienced in love she may be, but Sansa understood one thing better than she ever hoped she might. The heart wants what it wants, and that could not be helped. She longed for someone to hold her tonight, to ward off the nightmares awaiting her, to see her to sleep, to soothe her if she awoke. That someone she longed for was Sandor, and although she knew Zulu would do all of those things and more if she asked him to, he could not be Sandor's placeholder in her heart. With that thought, more tears came, accompanied by shaky breaths.

"Don't cry. Please don't cry," Zulu pleaded as her tears continued in uninterrupted streams.

Lifting her gaze to him once more, Sansa met his eyes and silently shook her head, a soft sob escaping her lips as she did.

"You love him," Zulu murmured after a long silence. It was not a question, for he must have already known the answer. This observation, unlike Alberto's observation of Sandor's love, bore the weight of his disappointment as it teemed with the conflict and turmoil Zulu now faced.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Sansa nodded her head.

Zulu could look at her as Sandor did, but he would never see her as Sandor did, would never share with her all she and Sandor shared with just a look, a touch, a kiss. Zulu's kiss wasn't the kiss of a man who possessed infinite access to the innermost workings and machinations of her very soul itself. Nor was his embrace that of a man who had gained an ethereal understanding of her and she of him, explicably and against all power either of them could ever wish to have against it, though neither of them would wish such a thing. Those were things sacred to her connection with Sandor.

Zulu could not tap into the things Sandor could, all the otherworldly understandings which could never be spoken of because words would perish on the tongue, inadequate in accounting for everything that existed between them yet yearning all the same to describe it to the unbelieving. It didn't matter to her if others could never possibly understand what it was she shared with Sandor and why it was worth all the madness to follow the path towards it, fighting like mad to preserve that which was indescribable. It didn't matter. All that mattered was it hadn't been Sandor's lips against hers, it wasn't his arms around her, it wasn't his heart beating wild against her chest, syncopated in rhythm with her own.

Without a word, Zulu pulled away from her, backing up in small steps before turning around and retreating from her completely.

As she had anticipated, nightmares haunted her that night, and she awoke with nearly every clap of thunder, arms reaching out to the vacant space next to her and her heart sinking when she repeatedly found it empty.

* * *

 

 

 

_Mafia dictionary_

**Big earner:** A member of the family who generates a lot of income through their dealings.

**Skim:** Gambling profits that are not taxed. The money from these profits is not reported to IRS and therefore the skimming profit is illegal.

**Taste:** The percentage of earnings a member of the family makes with particular dealings.

**Points:** Traditionally, this is the interest paid to a loanshark on a loan. However, it can be used in a general sense as the percentage of earnings taken from dealings, usually in regards to shylocking (loansharking). Each point is percent of the earnings.

**Going on the lam:** To lay low for awhile, typically to avoid arrest.

**Cement shoes:** A method of execution used by the Mafia (mostly in prohibition times) in which the victim is bound and their feet are encased in cement. They are dumped into a body of water and the cement functions as a way of weighing them down. It's unclear how widely used this method of execution was, but it is often used in the same manner as "sleeping with the fishes", a euphemism which is more tongue-in-cheek than anything.

 

 

 

_Song List_

**Ch. 13**

"Hurt" Johnny Cash

"One For My Baby (And One More For The Road)" Frank Sinatra

"Battles" Hudson Taylor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, enormous thanks to my betas! 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who continues to read this story and stick with me through all the twists and turns. I'm taking my time with the emotional aftermath of chapter 11. Things will begin to accelerate more quickly over the course of the next chapters so hang on tight. This chapter is shorter than the others because it is half of what was originally intended for chapter 13. 
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and reviews! I am always in awe of all the love this story gets. Keep it coming! It warms my heart and inspires the muse ;)


	14. Chapter 14

**Gods and Monsters**

Chapter 14

"You'll ride towards the sun  
As it guides you home  
But don't be afraid, little bird  
You aren't alone"

-Murder by Death

* * *

A nightmare had awoken Bronn in the early hours of the morning. The sun had yet to crest over the horizon, and the sky was still the murky color of ink, cast over with ashen wisps of clouds. In his dream, the dead had risen from their sarcophagi and walked among the living. He had searched for Mirabelle, frantically scanning the faces of the corpses swarming around him as they tried to rip flesh from bone. He never found her in his dream and, instead, awoke alone in her bed, the floral scent of her perfume lingering on the pillow next to him and fading with each passing day.

Wide awake at four in the morning, Bronn's stomach lurched at the thought of going back to sleep. He hated the nightmares which had begun to plague him in recent nights and avoided sleep where he could. It had been half past ten when he, Sandor, and the rest of the men finally left the funeral home after answering what questions they could for law enforcement. It was a round-robin of sorts, each man adding carefully contrived details to the story of what had transpired.

Despite a wary sort of reticence on the part of the detectives sent to the scene, it had been made abundantly clear that the men themselves were being scrutinized through mistrustful eyes that bespoke knowledge of their associations. Bronn had exchanged knowing looks with Sandor and Alberto, each man well aware that this would not be the last they heard on the matter. With some reluctance on the part of the police, the men were released from the scene and returned back to Moriarti's well after midnight, each man silently seeking retreat to their respective resting quarters.

After listening to the sound of the wind howling against the windows for only God knows how long, Bronn's body had given in to sheer exhaustion, and his eyes grew heavy before finally succumbing to sleep. For as much as he dreaded the time spent in the throes of all those horrid visions he found in slumber, Bronn loathed his waking hours even more. At least his nightmares offered a bit of a reprieve from endlessly facing the reality that was now his life. A void had been left, and it was growing deeper with each day he had spent without her. Light was leaving him, and he was finding himself in the same murky darkness that birthed the night itself.

Spending his days asleep or awake didn't seem to matter much anymore. He would leave this place soon. It had been a promise made to himself, and he was content to keep it whether Sandor had given his blessing or not. He would soak up the memories of the only woman he thought himself capable of ever truly loving, and then he would be gone. In his lifetime, Bronn had seen enormous amounts of cruelty in the world, many instances of which were committed by his own hand. Yet he could think of nothing more sinister and sadistic than Mirabelle being brought into his life - just long enough for him to know he could not exist without her - before ultimately being snatched away. If the gods existed, they were indeed cruel - monsters, perhaps.

Awake now as he stared up at the ceiling above, Bronn disentangled his limbs from the sheets still damp with sweat and slowly sat up, a dull ache pounding through his temples.

 _This day was going to come,_ he told himself, feet dangling off the bed and his face buried in the palms of his hands, which, for days, hadn't stopped trembling, it seemed.

_Today would come._

In the past week, there had been a delayed sense of understanding, denial some might call it. He had not seen her body laid out in a satin-lined casket. He did not cast a gaze upon her face one last time before ultimately walking away from her mortal remains, entrusting them into the earth's cold embrace. Some uncontrolled and entirely internal act of self-preservation prevented him from acknowledging that tucked away in that beautiful white casket was his Mirabelle. Only in dreams would he see her face again. Like her scent on the pillow next to him, perhaps even the memory of her face would fade with time, sullied by misremembered details and forgotten features. And that, he knew, would be the more devastating loss - the sharp shock of one day coming up empty handed when trying to recall the sight of her smile and the sound of her laugh.

The day had come, like death itself, sooner than he had hoped, silent and cold with no prospect of turning back. It was here.

It was the day he would bury his girl with the ring on her finger, the one she was meant to wear for the rest of their lives. Bronn had no idea when he purchased the diamond that she would only wear it in death and never in life. Surrounded by their shared family and friends, he would follow her down the aisle but not as man and wife. He would trail after the casket towards her final resting place, his heart shattered and his soul screaming out that it was too soon. They hadn't enough time, and it was all over before it ever really began. All he had now was a lifetime without her, a lifetime to remember that she was gone.

Despite a mere three hours of sleep, Bronn peeled himself out of the bed and began laying out his suit for the day - the fabric immaculately pressed and still in the plastic bag from the cleaners. He polished his shoes until they were supple and shone a glossy black. He showered and shaved, carefully trimming any stray hairs of his goatee, something which Mirabelle had always given him a hard time about. When he quietly retreated to the kitchen for coffee, the house had yet to stir; made men and their families were camped out in various rooms and still fast asleep as Bronn tip-toed around them, wondering if their dreams were as troubling as his had been.

In the kitchen, he gave pause as a pair of chartreuse lights glowed from the coffee maker, the carafe half full. Bronn felt a wan smile pull across his lips. There could be some comfort, however miniscule, in knowing he was not the only one who had suffered from a night of fleeting slumber and grotesque dreams. He poured himself a cup of coffee and ate half of an English muffin, the other half ending up in the trash when his appetite suddenly fled him.

Bronn had thought to watch the sun rise, but that proved to be a dull affair; the sky, although settled from the passing storm of the previous night, was rendered in grays and blacks. It was a dismal sight, and although he hadn't stepped foot outside, Bronn knew it was unseasonably cold. There would be no light today and no warmth either.

Instead, he sipped his coffee in front of the kitchen window and watched crows pick at the desolate earth, upturning stones to no avail before eventually taking to the skies in defeat. When the padding of footfalls sounded out above him, Bronn dumped the remainder of his coffee out in the sink and made for the basement lounge, slipping away before he was seen. Sandor had called a meeting for the administration and caporegimes of the Moriarti - an early and, despite the somber events of the day, entirely necessary meeting. It seemed the worst was far from over. In truth, the storm had only just begun, and all anyone could pray for was a temporary reprieve for today, at least.

As Bronn headed down the stairs, he imagined the basement lounge would be empty, a vacant casing of what it normally was - a place of merriment and camaraderie. Misgivings and doubts about the unsavory path their lives had taken them down were forgotten, at least for a time, as the men drank and gambled. However, they all faced the music sooner or later, forced to look at the life they had made for themselves and deal with the repercussions. None, least of all him, could have anticipated the grievous costs and just how much could be lost. Now, it seemed the charade was over, the music stopped, the laughing ceased, and the sobering truth was all that remained. And it was a truth to be faced on this very day, this day afflicted with insuppressible sorrow that even the skies and the crows and the earth itself seemed to understand.

By the dim orb of light cast about the large, round poker table at the center of the open room, Bronn was surprised to find that he would not be alone in solitude to await the meeting. Seated at the table was Sandor. With brow furrowed, he stared down into a cup of coffee, his hands dwarfing the mug as they clutched it for warmth.

With his hair pulled back from his face, which had been freshly shaven, he looked better than he had in days, a far cry from the drunken mess he had been. Simply dressed in a blue T-shirt and jeans, Sandor still somehow looked every bit the part of mafia boss despite the sorrow etched into his demeanor. At his best and at his worst, the man commanded the room, regardless.

"You're awake," Sandor noted flatly, his eyes still fixated in the depths of his cup as if divining some comfort there. When he finally looked up, settling back in his seat with arms crossed over the breadth of his chest, Bronn could see that his eyes no longer held the dullness they had just days before.

Bronn understood Sandor to be a strange creature in that way - falling to pieces and coming undone at the seams one day, only to master his emotions and conjure up composure from an unknown source the next. He never knew whether Sandor had truly vanquished the beast, or if he simply subdued it until its next conjuring.

"I didn't sleep well," Bronn confided as he lowered himself in the seat next to Sandor.

"Me neither," Sandor confessed in return, his voice grave.

Bronn waited for more, for the opportunity to commiserate in the grief they shared. It did not come, though, as Sandor sat in silence next to him, his mind a vault where he was sole proprietor of his own thoughts.

"I hoped I wouldn't wake up today," Sandor finally declared, leaving Bronn to do nothing more than stare disbelievingly as he listened. "You know that guy, Rip Van Winkle? He drinks a fuckton of moonshine and falls asleep for years and years. I thought maybe I could do that. Just wake up after it's all said and done, you know? When I fell asleep, though, the knowledge that she's gone hurt just as bad in my dreams as it does when I'm awake. So I got up." Shrugging his shoulders, Sandor lifted his mug and downed the rest of its tepid contents. "I've got things to live for," he added with the ghost of a smile gracing his lips.

Bronn felt a steady tremble ease its way through him, terminating in his fingers tightly clasped together as to not give away his secret. He too had wished not to wake up today but to a much different end than Sandor.

He had known Sandor for some time, and they had seen each other through many hardships, albeit pale in comparison to this. In Sandor, Bronn found a kindred companion of sorts whose potential for darkness matched his own. There might not be mutual encouragement to be better men, but what he did share with Sandor was an understanding of the intricate struggle with their own personal demons.

 _'Get on board, or get out of my way,'_ Sandor had said to him not so many nights ago. Another man would have been hurt by this declaration, but not Bronn. He understood, as he always did, the beast that roamed within Sandor. It was kin to his own. In this way, Bronn was already on board, and strange as it was, he found comfort in knowing that Sandor struggled with Mirabelle's death as painfully and excruciatingly as he did. It had been consuming Sandor as it was consuming Bronn now. They could not save one another, no, but what was left of the light, the goodness, in each of them could perish together - two broken souls existing in the same personal hell of grief and loss.

Something was different about Sandor, though, that much Bronn knew for sure. It wasn't so obvious as to be articulated in a manner of dress or speech. It was a shift in the mood and a change in the energy the man carried with him. When it had happened and how it had happened, Bronn could not say. What he could say for certain was that Sansa was integral to it. Sandor had a reason to live, a reason to fight against the consuming grief and to become a better man because of it.  _Get on board, or get out of my way._ Bronn had had his opportunity to get on board with this - a reason to live and a reason to be a better man - but it was taken from him. Now all he had left to do was get out of the way.

Bronn and Sandor scarcely said much more to one another, only passing comments about the prospects of rain today and other such mindless banter. Alberto arrived not long after; his surprise at seeing the two of them together was evident by the look on his face. The others were not far behind him, each filling in the empty seats, one by one, until every capo associated with the Moriarti family was seated at the table, all eight of them.

Given that Go-Go and Half-Stroke each held territory in Nevada, Bronn worked closely with them as well as Disco who covered Las Vegas. The other capos were spread along the West Coast, from Washington all the way down to Southern California. It had been many months since the caporegimes of the Moriarti were together in the same room at the same time. It was an impressive sight, and as Bronn shifted his eyes to Sandor, he had expected to see a swelling of pride on his face. However, pride had been replaced by a sense of purpose, and beyond that, Sandor appeared impassible and stoic, as ever.

When the men were comfortably settled around the table and the din of greetings and conversation quieted, Sandor began, but not before his eyes fell on each man in turn, holding his stare for a few brief seconds.

"I didn't want to meet today. I thought it was improper to hold a meeting on the day we bury Mirabelle." Sandor furrowed his brow as he gave pause before continuing, staring down at the table for long moments before lifting his eyes again. When he spoke again, his words came languid and unhurried.

"Then I thought about the bastard who did this. I thought about how he's fully aware that today I'm putting my own, and  _his_ own, flesh and blood into the ground. I thought about how badly, and with every fiber of my being, I want to make him suffer. I thought about how I want him to beg me to put him out of his miserable existence and how I will deny him of that mercy long enough to watch him suffer. And then I thought about how I don't want to waste another minute putting off finding him and doing what I should've done a long, long time ago."

With each word, determination seemed to sink its claws deeper and deeper into Sandor. As he finished, his jaw set firmly, his breaths seemed to come frantic as his chest heaved. This wasn't unbridled anger rendering him a loose cannon likely to incur more collateral damage than anything else. Sandor's resolve was focused, intent, and promised to be relentless and tireless until the job was done.

His monologue had broken the intrigued silence which had befallen the men. Bronn watched as nods of pride and approval were shared across the table and as smiles broke across each man's face. Whatever concern and disappointment these men had held at seeing Sandor, their fearless leader, come undone mere days before was washed away now. Sandor had reinstated himself as the man these men needed him to be, the man they would follow into battle and possible death.

"So we start planning," Big Johnny broke in, his name a nod to his height, which about matched Sandor's. Sequestered all the way up in Seattle, Big Johnny had taken on the visage of an outdoorsman, it seemed, beard and all. "I'll get the word out for my men to get down here."

"We'll need numbers," Sandor agreed.

"In the mean time, we can be assured that Vegas PD will be up our ass about last night," Disco added in a thick Boston accent. "We got some shit luck with the inspector assigned to the case. He's already contacting our men for more questioning."

Bronn saw annoyance flash across Sandor's face as he bit his bottom lip in thought. They were well acquainted with inspector Malcolm Schroeder. The man had been chomping at the bit to bring a Moriarti lead to his department's doorstep in hopes of an eventual promotion. They had had many run-ins with the man as he tried to shut down the Vegas card rooms. Loop holes in the law had always been their saving grace.

"If Schroeder wants to waste his time getting fifty versions of the same goddamn story, then that's his business," Sandor responded, nonplussed. "Marco showed up dead. Beyond that, there isn't anything else to tell. For once, we don't know much more than that."

"We do know Marco ratted to someone. That was evident," Bronn remarked as the memory of Marco's mangled face emerged in his mind. A man who breaks a vow of silence can expect to have a gun shoved in his mouth. It was this sort of symbolic demise which the mafia families were known for.

The faces around the table seemed to harden at the mention of Marco, in particular AWOL and Bicycle Pete who handled Southern California and Los Angeles territory, respectively. Running the Northern and Central California territory, Marco and Vinny had worked closely with AWOL and Pete, all four of the men in constant communication as they handled the biggest segment of the Moriarti family's domain.

"It sounds as if too much information passed from Marco to Vinny," Alberto commented placidly as he folded his hands against his chest. "If Vinny was as out-of-the-loop as he claimed to be, then that begs the question why he knew so much about Marco's dealings with Gregor."

As Alberto finished, he cast a steady gaze onto Sandor, who slowly nodded his head in reply.

"Unless there was a third man involved that Vinny wasn't telling me about, then Marco himself had to have informed Vinny," Sandor agreed. "Marco's death was retaliatory. Vinny revealed too much to me, but wasn't alive to take the fall for it."

"None of our men have come forward claiming Marco as their work," Half-stroke added. His statement was met with nods by each capo, confirming what had been said as it applied to their group of soldiers.

"I don't think it was one of our men," Sandor replied definitively and with conviction. "A man with half his head blown off can't talk and is, therefore, no use to me. I would have wanted Marco alive, and our men would know that. The ones who didn't would've come forward by now to brag about it."

"It's clear that your brother is well aware of our visit with Vinny," Go-Go affirmed then, voicing what most of the men at the table already implicitly understood. "He probably would have done the job himself if you hadn't. And if Gregor wasn't keeping tabs on us before, he is now. Marco was a demonstration of that."

"We're in agreement, then, that Marco was the work of the Severelli?" Sandor queried as he cast a glance around the table, his stare met with a nod as it came to each man.

Before Sandor could say much more, the sound of Lorenzo Falconi's voice broke in. He was the oldest of the capos, in his late forties, having been a capo since Alberto's days as boss. He had given up the Los Angeles territory in favor of Oregon, which was much easier for the man to handle, save Portland, which was Sal Murdoch's territory.

"Alberto, things like this have happened in the past between the Severelli and Moriarti, am I right?" Lorenzo asked, stroking the salt-and-pepper whiskers of his neatly trimmed beard.

"In my father's day, yes," Alberto confirmed with a nod and a grim frown. The men listened intently as Moriarti spoke. "Gian di Carli's predecessor was quite fond of psychological warfare. It's a wearing-down of one's enemy as a precursor to attack. It was sort of a "burnt earth" tactic, as my father called it. Fear and paranoia would run high, and that, in turn, created a weakness which was then exploited by the Severelli." As Alberto finished, he turned towards Sandor, his voice low as if his words were meant for Sandor's ears alone, although the rest of the men surely heard. "Gregor is calculated. He wants you to know he's watching."

"Sounds about right," Sandor replied with a nod, his jaw visibly tensing now. "That's how Gregor operates."

"What about today?" Murdoch broke in. "Do we think anything is going to happen?"

It was the question the men had been waiting for Sandor to address. Although the men seated at the table were all capable and well trained, Bronn couldn't help but notice the residual traces of fear gleaming in every set of eyes, which were now on Sandor.

"I honestly doubt it," Sandor assured. While some of the men seemed awash with relief, others did not seem so convinced. "If my brother's goal was to do some damage to us, he would have done so last night when we weren't expecting it. He knows we'll be packing tonight in case he shows up again. He is keeping tabs on us though. I don't doubt that."

"The boy has a lead on where your brother and his men are operating out of lately," Bronn informed as he turned to Sandor, watching as he instantaneously seemed to harden like stone, muscles tensing and jaw aligning in a sharp line as his lips pressed together.

"Zulu!" Bicycle Pete cried out with glee. "Where is that little son-of-bitch these days?" Zulu had formerly been one of Pete's soldiers before joining up with Vinny's crew. Regardless, Zulu still held a warm place in Pete's heart.

Despite Pete's outburst, Bronn had kept his eyes on Sandor, studying his reaction and now understanding it was a sore subject to have been brought up.

"Yes, where is Zulu right now, Alberto?" Sandor questioned quietly, although his voice betrayed a fair deal of agitation.

Stiffening, Alberto stared at his age-spotted hands resting gently on the table. His eyes flickered in Sandor's direction before returning back to where they had been.

"I don't keep ledgers of what your men are doing from day to day, Sandor."

The men did not seem to hear the exchange, save for Go-Go and Half-Stroke who swapped grave looks with one another from across the table. It seemed even those two had noticed the time and attention Zulu had been paying Sansa lately and understood the boy was playing with fire. Even goomahs were sacred territory to each made man, the others knowing to keep well enough away. However, Sansa was no goomah, and Sandor was not just a made man.

"A synopsis of what he found would be nice," Sandor grumbled, his voice loud across the table as to hush the side conversations that had begun to ensue amongst the men.

"Before we paid Vinny a visit, Louisa turned over his cell phone to us," Bronn began. "There were frequent calls exchanged between him and another number. It was more than likely Marco, although we can't know for sure at this point given that the phone is registered to an obvious alias. Regardless, the kid traced the calls to a spot near Boulder City."

"That doesn't mean Gregor is there now," Sandor countered. "He won't stay in one place for long. He's essentially the figure head of the disenfranchised Severelli. It's not like he can operate out of one central location, not until he establishes himself at least. He'll stay close and then retreat, most likely sticking with the protection the Caballero cartel provides."

Tension seemed to spread across the table, followed by an unsettling silence.

"I want Zulu looking into known Caballero hotspots in Nevada and Southern California," Sandor commanded, ignoring, for now, the obvious distress written on all the men's faces. "Once we get a location, we'll start planning from there."

For many long moments, the table remained silent as a crypt, each man waiting for another to speak up and voice what was so clearly a shared fear amongst all of them. It was AWOL who finally broke the silence. He had served in the Persian Gulf War, a hero who came back home with a heavy dose of PTSD and a severe distaste for the American government. He deserted his post, going AWOL and joining up with the Moriarti instead.

"Your brother and his crew are one thing, but the Caballero…" AWOL's voice trailed off as he shook his head. "The cartel is some serious shit, Sandor. Once there are shots fired with them, we can't go back."

AWOL's admonition was met with nods from the men around the table, although none said much more. It seemed all their fears were better left unsaid.

"Thank you," Sandor responded with a sardonic laugh. "And here I thought the beheading of Gian di Carli's capos was my brother's idea." Sandor leaned forward in his seat, his body looming closer to the table as he spoke on a voice thick with intensity, his forefinger prodding against the table to emphasize each word. "We're not going to run scared with our tails between our legs. That's not how I handle business, and you all are sitting at this table because I  _know_ that's not how you handle business either."

Pacified for now, the men gave silent nods as Sandor turned to Bronn once more.

"Set Zulu on his task, and then I want him to report to me directly the day after tomorrow."

A look of concern flashed across Alberto's face as he stared at Bronn and then at Sandor. Rarely did made men report to Sandor directly. The information they had was passed up through the ranks. Every so often, they would report to the underboss, but Bronn could not remember the last time Sandor requested the presence of a made man specifically.

"I will let him know," Bronn replied quietly, casting a glance towards Alberto as he spoke. The old man was visibly unnerved.

"With Marco and Vinny out of the picture, Northern and Central California territory will need to be temporarily covered," Sandor announced curtly, his readiness at wrapping up the meeting apparent. "Murdoch, I want you to expand down into Northern Cali and take Vinny's old territory and his men. Pete, you'll take over the rest of Southern Cali, and AWOL, you'll take over Marco's territory in Central Cali. It's only until Marco and Vinny are replaced which, after this bullshit with the Severelli is settled, will be our next order of business."

"Is there any other business that needs to be addressed now?" Sandor questioned as he looked around the table, waiting for responses. The table descended into silence once more, each man shaking their head or resigning themselves to hold onto their thoughts for now. "Then I think we're done here, gentlemen."

With that, Sandor pushed himself from the table and headed in long strides towards the door. Bronn moved to speak to Alberto but found that the man had fixed his sight on Sandor. Abruptly excusing himself from the table, Alberto headed upstairs after Sandor.

* * *

The basement lounge had felt peculiarly claustrophobic to Sandor, as if the walls themselves had shifted and were pressing further in on him. Despite his focus, impatience was threatening the better of him. The exhilaration felt at discussing the steps forward for the organization was short lived when Sandor realized he was tired of  _talking_ about what he wanted to do to Gregor. Words were just that - thoughts breathed to life. Actions were the realization of those thoughts, the manifestation of a long awaited opportunity for vengeance.

He had lain awake the past few nights envisioning all the ways in which to murder his brother. When he would finally fall asleep, his dreams were violent and lacquered in crimson, as a slain giant was laid out at his feet alongside a mangled beast with a scarred visage. Fires burned, but in his dreams Sandor was no longer afraid. In fact, he was reborn in those flames, the same ones he had feared for so long.

The air was cool against Sandor's skin as he stepped out onto the back patio and settled in front of the railing. Nestled high on a mountain foot hill, the property overlooked the desert valley below, the earthen colors cast in muted hues for today as the sun refused an appearance. Alberto was not far behind him, the old man wheezing as he caught up to Sandor.

As he drummed his fingers on the railing, Sandor shifted a gaze towards Alberto. He studied the old man's face, watching relief settle in as Alberto pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and patted it against his forehead.

"Sandor," Alberto proceeded as he caught his breath. "Zulu's time spent with Ms. Stark is a result of me requesting he keep a watchful eye on her. You were in rare form following Mirabelle's passing, which was to be expected, and I thought it best for all involved."

"You think I'm going to hurt him." It was not a question. It was clear Alberto had convinced himself on the matter, and only now did the man's concern, evident mere moments ago, seem to make sense. Sandor exhaled a laugh as he shook his head. "No. I won't hurt the kid."

Aware now that Zulu's attentions towards Sansa were not of his own volition, Sandor felt his own relief ripple through him. He relished the satisfaction he found in it. Zulu would not be so foolish as to seek out Sansa's affections. Zulu was not like the other young made men and certainly wasn't cut from the same cloth as E.Z. and some of the others. Truly, Zulu was a capo in the making. He was dutiful and loyal, qualities Sandor had now come to realize he admired in the kid and respected a great deal.

"I understand why you did what you did, Alberto," Sandor added with sincerity and gratefulness. While he may not have understood a week ago, Sandor realized now that Alberto's judgment had been spot on.

The old man gave a warm, although fatigued, smile. Sandor returned his gaze to the view beyond, resting his forearms against the railing as he leaned forward.

"I saw you and Sansa together at Mirabelle's visitation. Are matters mended between the two of you?" Alberto queried.

"No. I need to talk to her," Sandor replied. "I wanted to last night after everything at the funeral home wrapped up. Obviously, Marco shot that plan to shit."

"Peculiar choice of words," Alberto chuckled as his fingers traced the smooth edge of the railing. "Shot to shit."

Sweeping a gaze up to Alberto, Sandor exhaled a laugh in return. A serious and thoughtful man, it wasn't often that Alberto found humor in things, but when he did, it was usually a morbid sort of humor. Regardless, it had been quite some time since Sandor had heard Alberto laugh.

A calm breeze picked up around them, the sensation a caress against Sandor's skin despite the goosebumps forming on his bare arms. Lifting his eyes to the sky, he noticed the clouds beginning to thin and shift, their motions fluid as they moved in steady unison towards the east.

"My father was a courageous man, but he had a violent, catastrophic temper," Alberto quietly reflected. Seldom did he speak of his father, although Sandor knew Alberto cherished the man. Perhaps the memories were too painful to be dredged up. "Believe it or not, I too have a violent temper. For many years, I accepted it as a part of who I was. I made little effort to curb my anger when I felt it rising within me. I used to think that I inherited it from my father, and in a way, I carried it around with a misplaced sense of pride. People are inclined to think that way, you know - that we cannot help certain facets of our demeanor, as if all the deviance of our ancestors is a blood memory we are destined to remember by reliving it.

"It wasn't until years later that I began to realize I had the power of choice when it came to what sort of man I wanted to be. My temper was destroying my marriage, chipping away at the bond I had with Francisca and poisoning her trust in me. I could have taken the coward's path, continued believing that I had reached my potential and was as good of a man as I would ever be. In this way, the burden is on others to accept in us a lesser version of ourselves. There is another choice, though, and the one I ultimately made. I admitted my wrong doing and began on the path towards being something greater than what I was, to change despite being predisposed towards something dark. Francisca would not settle for less and not just because of her own needs but because she saw the man I could become and encouraged me to fight to become that man. It was not easy, but I learned to pacify my instincts towards impatience and ire. I saved a marriage and I saved myself."

Sandor stared down at his hands clasped in front of him. Alberto possessed a peculiar perceptiveness, never failing to precisely intuit Sandor's internal musings. His memories and recollections of Alberto's marriage to Francisca had been heavy on his mind lately. The happiness shared between Francisca and Alberto had been evident, yet it was not an effortless union. Even Sandor could tell the two had endured many battles of the heart to find the peace and love they so badly wanted with one another. The peace was hard-won, it seemed, with a purity of love being the force which saw them through.

"You've always been your own worst enemy, Sandor," Alberto continued when he did not answer. "Destroying the things you don't think you are worthy of but wanting them all the same. You are not your brother, and you never will be. You choose the type of man you wish to be, and don't you ever believe otherwise."

Although softly spoken, Alberto's words held a sort of ferocity to them, the fierceness of hope. Despite his perceptiveness, Alberto did not seem to understand that Sandor had already come to the same conclusion himself. It was part and parcel to his dreams of fire and rebirth, of sanctity through atonement. When he awoke from these dreams, he awoke feeling liberated from hatred and anger, spite and malice. He had decided many nights ago to chase after that liberation in his waking hours until he found it. And he had found it. It was where the path of redemption began.

Standing up to his full height, Sandor turned now towards Alberto, his arms resting gently by his sides as he stared at the man.

"And if I want to be a better man, how am I supposed to do that here?" Sandor nodded his head towards the Moriarti mansion looming above them. He watched as Alberto's brow folded ever so slightly and as the man seemed to settle back on his heels, quite literally taken aback. "You can talk as if you've taken the path to righteousness, but you're a murderer and racketeer just like all the rest of us. You've done some heinous shit too, old man. Don't act like you haven't."

"It's the people we care about-" Alberto began on a thin, disbelieving voice.

"It's the people I care about who are getting hurt," Sandor abruptly interrupted as he leaned forward, his voice carrying loudly across the patio. "Not me, but them. If it were me getting hurt, fine. But not Mirabelle and not Sansa."

With his blood pumping hot through his veins, Sandor found the air outside no longer held the same chill it had just moments before. Alberto's lips sealed shut as the man swallowed hard. Moments of silence passed between them as Sandor waited for the old man to gather his thoughts.

"I remember well the night you were made," Alberto started grimly. "I initiated four of you that night and watched as the flames from the cards licked your hands. Yours burned the longest, do you remember that?"

Sandor nodded vacantly, distinctly recollecting his fear of the flames.

"I knew you were afraid of fire, and I knew why," Alberto continued. "And yet the determination I saw in you was remarkable. The others winced in pain, doubt momentarily fracturing the visage of courage they tried to hold on to. Despite your own fear, you knew what you wanted, what you had to do, and it didn't matter what the sacrifices were. It was vengeance that drove you. This life was the outlet to all your rage, a way to exorcise all the things which would have otherwise eaten you alive. Here, you had routine, discipline, and something to work towards, even if hate was initially your motivator."

Despite the proud nostalgia he saw gleaming in Alberto's eyes and the wistful smile which now graced the old man's lips, Sandor understood the subtext of the words spoken, their meaning hidden in flowery vernacular meant to rest steadily on sentiment. In his younger years, Sandor would listen raptly, hanging on each of Alberto's words, as he found someone worth listening to. Only now did he recognize a subtle sort of manipulation that Alberto wove into his words on imperceptible threads.

"I wasn't working towards this," Sandor countered in defense. "Marco was favored to be your successor, and if I remember correctly, you seemed rather content with him up your ass as he tried to ensure his place next in line."

Sandor leveled a defiant stare towards Alberto. The old man's face flushed red, his eyes widening to the size of saucers at Sandor's accusation as well as all that was being left undeclared.

"You made a blood oath," Alberto seethed on an angry breath, trying in earnest to keep his voice down, although it was apparent the words were meant to be shouted. "It was what you wanted. I did not force your hand."

"I was young and stupid. I didn't have anywhere else to go, and I wanted Mirabelle taken care of. I couldn't have known exactly what I would be getting myself into. I didn't think I had anything to sacrifice then. There was nothing to forsake."

Sandor felt a heavy wave of remorse break upon him, the force tremendous as it left him near breathless. He had failed Mirabelle; time and again, he had failed her. With a sigh, Alberto moved closer towards Sandor, his anger seemingly replaced with his own sense of guilt.

"Francisca wasn't like all the other wives. She was different," Sandor remarked. "She wasn't all hard talk and ball busting. She was gentle and sweet. This life should have broken her, but it didn't."

"She was tougher than you think, Sandor," Alberto replied.

"You never took a goomah, did you?" Sandor asked, although he was almost certain of Alberto's devotion to Francisca. However, he also understood the fucked up code of ethics that many of the Moriarti men held dear. Even the most devoted men jumped on the opportunity to keep a mistress.

"There was no need. I didn't want anyone else," Alberto confessed quietly as he stared at Sandor through narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow, his mind working to puzzle out the changing tides of the conversation.

"For all the honorable things you did - subduing your temper and remaining faithful - you can't tell me Francisca was happy in the life, that she enjoyed the fact that she was married to a mob boss, that you could be thrown away in prison or end up dead on your own doorstep."

"The women make many sacrifices. It's unfortunate, but it's true," Alberto acquiesced gravely.

Although he had turned once more to stare out across the desert, Sandor caught the small, knowing smile forming on Alberto's lips as he slowly nodded his head in recognition.

"You want to know how Francisca and I made it work, don't you?" the man prodded. "Well, I have no secret to share on that matter. No formula for success. She was my Queen, and I treated her as such. I know you'll do the same with Sansa. The girl will acclimate with time."

"Acclimate?" Sandor snapped, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. His eyes narrowed towards Alberto as he glared at the man. "Sansa didn't ask for any of this, and I think we can agree she deserves better. And I think you know that Francisca deserved better too. You never did anything though. So what, you never fucked another woman and didn't rage out on her? You don't deserve some gold medal for that."

The words stung, Sandor could tell. The venom they carried was the venom of truth. Alberto took the hit, realizing then that protesting Sandor's claims would be futile. There would be no lies exchanged between them. This was the way of their relationship, however hard it may be. He seemed to have struck a nerve with Alberto, a long forgotten regret which undoubtedly resurfaced every so often only to be buried once more.

Small at first and growing steadily larger with each passing moment, a column of light broke through the clouds, and Sandor squinted against the emerging sun as he faced Alberto.

"You made a choice, Alberto, and I understand why you did. This was your legacy. Francisca understood that too. I can't ask Sansa to do the same though. I can't keep doing this to her. I can't keep fucking up and begging for forgiveness. And that's all I see when I think about the future. It's me constantly on my knees, pleading for her to stay with me and promising things will get better. But they don't get better. I've been around long enough to know that.

"You say I get to choose what sort of man I want to be. Well, I'm making that choice. Just like you made yours. My choice is to be better. For her and for me, I want to be a better man. I want to be worthy of her, and I know I can't do that here. Sansa is strong and capable of acclimating, but that doesn't change the fact that she deserves so much more, and I want to give her that if she'll still have me."

Moriarti's face was impassible, and although Sandor tried to glean whatever information he could by a creasing of the man's lips or a glint to his eyes, he came up empty handed. Only now did Sandor realize what he was asking and that he needed Moriarti's approval - not as his advisor but as a father figure.

Sucking in a breath, Alberto steadied a stare on Sandor, his head tipped up and held high.

"As your consigliere, I would advise you to remember the consequences a made man suffers for walking away," he informed tepidly, his voice even so as not to betray his feelings on the matter but merely his counsel instead. "You took an oath. It was an oath which promises death should you break it. You are not just any made man, though. Our organization has grown significantly since you took over. The men you met with today look up to you. You are their leader, and they will not tolerate well the idea of you walking away."

Sandor had thought Alberto would leave it at that, and he might never know whether he had broken the man's heart by handing back the legacy that Alberto took so much pride in. Before Sandor could speak, Alberto reached up and rested a trembling hand on Sandor's shoulder. This time when he met Sandor's eyes, there was warmth - a warmth which seemed to match that of the sun still bathing them in its light.

"As a man who sees you as his only son, I am proud of you, and I will always be proud of you, even if you do choose to leave. You struggle with whether or not you're a bad man. I think you know now that you aren't, although to be a great man you must do good in this world. Everyone is capable of redemption, and you, Sandor, are no exception to that. You are just as deserving of its blessing as anyone else."

With that, Alberto wrapped his other arm around Sandor, pulling him into a strong embrace.

"Thank you," Sandor murmured, squeezing his arms around Alberto and patting him on the back before releasing his hold.

Although Alberto had spoken truly about the consequences of leaving, Sandor welcomed the relief he felt now.

"I noticed you've stopped drinking," Alberto observed with curiosity as he leaned up against the patio railing.

"It seemed like the best place to start," Sandor replied with a nod. "I haven't had a drink since the night you came after me. And I won't again."

It had taken Sandor two days to reassemble his office. With each shard of glass he swept up, each book placed back on its shelf, each paper returned to its rightful folder, Sandor was presented with a reminder of how far he had let himself go and how much damage he had inflicted, not to his office but to those around him, Sansa chief among them. The shame and disgust he felt with himself had been nearly unbearable. He could not help but associate alcohol with all of this, for surely it had its contribution. The thought of whiskey alone beckoned dry heaves, its smoky taste and dull warmth no longer appealing to him.

"I believe you," Alberto affirmed, and Sandor knew the man spoke truly, that truth meaning more than he could have imagined.

"It's good to talk about things too, though," Alberto continued tentatively. "You play your cards very close to your chest, but discussing what vexes us is liberating, even if those troubles are in our past."

Alberto gave pause before continuing, selecting his words with care, or so it seemed.

"Would you be opposed to discussing these things? You and I can make time however often you want and discuss whatever you want. I would listen and you could talk. No pressure, no awkwardness. Just you talking and me listening."

He understood what Alberto was offering, and although it was true he kept his troubles predominantly to himself, Sandor understood, now, the importance of their release, which was a necessity to healing.

"Yeah, you've got the right of it, and I think that would do me a lot of good," Sandor agreed with a nod of his head. "Right now, though, there's someone else I need to talk to."

Smiling, Alberto clapped Sandor on the back and wished him well before watching as Sandor retreated inside to find Sansa.

* * *

Sandor knew where to find her. In movements fluid and uninterrupted by doubt, he ascended the stair case, his hand gripping the banister for purchase as he felt his legs conspiring to buckle beneath him. With each step, he heard the faint melodic sounds of the piano, a siren's song beckoning him nearer to her. She didn't need it; surely, he'd follow her to hell and back again if it meant forgiveness.

He pressed forward down the hallway towards the room which housed Alberto's old piano. Sandor had almost forgotten it was there, the thing having collected dust for God knows how many years. Alberto had stopped playing soon after Francisca's death, the room sealed off and silent as a tomb ever since. In their last conversation with one another, Mirabelle had posed the idea to designate the piano room as Sansa's very own piece of the Moriarti mansion.

Sandor remembered well that last conversation he had with his sister in the dark hours just before dawn: the confessed fears they had shared with one another, the reminiscence of their past, the resuscitated solidarity they felt with one another. All their lives Mirabelle had declared time and again how much she needed him, how they only had each other in this life. The mutuality of Mirabelle's declaration had been unspoken on Sandor's part, for he never announced his need for anyone or anything. Pride had been his downfall but more so, the fear that the things in his life designated as needs would be ripped from him and he would end up alone. The bitter and cruel truth of the matter was that he had never told Mirabelle how much he needed her, and despite his superstitions at voicing the truth that he did, in fact, need her, she was taken from him anyway.

As he reached the closed door of Sansa's music room, Sandor found himself doing something he hadn't quite done before. Without pretense and without prompt, he prayed. Not to God, but instead he prayed to his sister. Beneath his breath, he whispered what he should have told her many, many years ago, as soon as she could comprehend the words.

_I need you, Mirabelle. I always needed you. My life would have been a wreck without you, and perhaps it is now that you're gone. I don't know where we go after we die, but I can't believe that you're far. I just can't. So, help me now because just as much as I needed you, I need her too._

As soon as the prayer left his lips, Sandor drew in a breath and nudged the door open slowly. With the curtains drawn back, half of the room was aglow in oblong shapes of light cast against the floor as the sun poured through the windows. He could feel the warmth radiating throughout, and in the opposite corner of the room, Sansa was seated behind the piano, her eyebrows drawn together in concentration as she studied the movement of her hands across the keys.

Transfixed as he hovered in the doorway, Sandor watched in silence, his feet rooting him in place. The melody she played was sweet, if not sad - gentle and somber and wholly foreign to him. He remembered how he had mocked her once, calling her a little bird in regards to her apparent love of song and dance. She had been afraid then, though she had tried in earnest to hide it and deny him the satisfaction of her fear. Defeated and broken, she had fought against that fear, drawing on a strength that had, even then, surprised and enraptured him even further, inciting a persistent need to know her better.

He wondered now how much of her he did not truly know: the parts that she had kept hidden for fear and for doubt, the parts suppressed, the parts left undiscovered because he hadn't taken the time. There was shame anew as he watched her blissfully adrift on the notes she played, realizing now that indeed she was a little bird. A little bird captured and caged, taken from all that she had treasured and loved. Wings clipped, she had found what little refuse she could, seeking out shelter against a storm she had not willingly flown in to.

With her eyes softly shut and a delicate smile dancing across her lips as she played, Sansa had found her song again. Serenity and calm began to flourish where pain and isolation had been. There were no secrets here, no doubts and no fear. Just her - unguarded and unfettered as she carved out a place of beauty amongst all the chaos.

Sensing his presence, the notes abruptly stopped, and Sansa's eyes fluttered open, widening as she caught sight of him in the doorway. Guarded once more, she seemed to disappear to the sanctuary she had built within her own heart, that secret place she fled to. He wished he knew the way so that me might follow her there, tell her how sorry he was and beg for forgiveness until she let him off his knees.

"Don't stop," was all he seemed to manage, manifesting on nothing more than a quivering exhale.

"I didn't see you," Sansa replied quietly with an embarrassed smile, cheeks flushing red.

"May I join you?" Sandor questioned, recognizing this space as a haven she had claimed for herself. Unwilling to intrude if she did not want him here, he would not enter until she let him.

"Yes, of course," Sansa acquiesced, scrambling to move sheets of paper off of the piano bench and placing them in orderly stacks on the floor.

Sandor traversed the open expanse of the room as a slow and steady tremble eased its way through his body. When he approached the piano bench, he saw that Sansa had already donned her funeral attire. Garbed in a black lace dress, its sleeves long and neck high despite the fact that it hugged her figure, she had kicked off her black heels, which were resting beside the piano pedals. She had drawn her hair up off of her shoulders in a tight bun resting on the top of her head, the graceful length of her neck showcased. A few wisps of curling hair had come loose at the nape of her neck, streaks of red and gold aflame in the sunlight.

Gazing up at him through her lashes, the flush had yet to disappear from her cheeks, although Sandor could say with a fair bit of certainty it was not residual embarrassment that beckoned the blush to remain. Straddling the piano bench as he faced her now, he was close to her, closer than he had been in days. Ever the proper little lady, she drew her legs up on the bench as she turned towards him, her knees pressed together to preserve her modesty. Leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, Sandor lifted his gaze to her.

"You play beautifully," he intoned, his voice still sounding weak to his own ears. "What was the song you were playing?"

If she perceived any weakness in him, Sansa did not show it. Instead, her lips pulled into a bright smile, dissipating the heaviness that had settled between them but not banishing it completely.

"Thank you. It's just something I'm writing," she confessed timidly and with a dismissive shrug of her shoulders.

Feeling his lips part and words flee him, Sandor knew that he was surely gaping at her as he studied her face in awe. When he had fallen into silence for many moments, Sansa began to shift uncomfortably on the bench, her eyes averted to the lined sheets of paper resting on the music rack of the piano. He followed her eyes and saw scribbles of notes in her handwriting, musical symbols and vocabulary that he could scarcely understand.

"You wrote that?" he finally spoke, incredulous not because he didn't believe, but rather because of the confirmation that he, indeed, hadn't taken the time to know her,  _truly_ know her. And all that time had been wasted, thrown to the wind and quickly rendered a thing of the past. With that knowledge, a frenzy set in, desperation at stealing the time back if only to get closer to her. She felt so far away from him now and he from her.

Biting her bottom lip, she gave a small nod, incipient traces of pride surfacing in her eyes, her smile.

"I've never known anyone who can write music or play it like you were playing," Sandor responded, still stunned and finding himself captivated once more.

"Do you know how to play a piano?" Sansa queried, seemingly finding revived intrigue in him as well.

With a half-smile, Sandor turned to the piano keys, searching out the only one he was familiar with and giving it a firm press with his finger until it sounded.

"Middle C. And that's all I know," he answered with a low, grumbling laugh.

"It's a start," she laughed along with him, a soft giggle breaking through her lips which eased away the tension she had been holding in her frame.

Her laughter beckoned his smile to fade then. He had heard her laugh here and there for the past week, catching the sound of it as he walked the halls or heard its echo from somewhere down below as he passed by the staircase. From somewhere underneath the same roof as him, she had been content enough to allow her joy to manifest on laughter, yet it hadn't been him who inspired that happiness. To measure their shared experiences with one another on the scales of joy and sorrow, he had surely caused her more sorrow than anything else.

Yet she still offered smiles to him, allowed him to be close to her despite all the damage he had incurred. She was grace personified, her kindness radiant, her compassion a rare wonder in a world he knew to be equal parts cruel and unjust. To know her was to understand the good he had never believed in before. He had denied its existence, choosing instead to dwell in darkness rather than seek out a purity which might upend his understanding of the world and ultimately shatter his beliefs founded in bitterness and rage. A creature of darkness did not belong in her world of light, and although he did not feel worthy of her, true to Alberto's observation, he wanted her all the same. And rather than destroy that which he did not feel worthy of, Sandor knew it was time to shed the darkness and head down the path towards worthiness. Although he might falter and fall, he would crawl his way towards redemption if he must, coming to her on hands and knees, soiled and broken by the journey.

He was a tormented soul and not someone who was easy to love. The path of redemption would be as arduous as it was long, and perhaps at the end of it there would be no place left in her good graces. She may cast him out to exist in some purgatory between the hell he had clawed his way out of and the divinity of her purity and light.

He would try though. He would fight to become the man she seemed to see in him - the good that existed somewhere beneath his own fortitude of hatred and anger. In the end, she may turn him away, and he would forfeit to a better man if it meant her happiness. Never again, though, did he wish to become the monster she feared lurked within him. It was time to slay the beast once and for all, to cauterize a wound that had festered too long.

With a shuddering breath, Sandor reached out towards her, taking her hands into each of his own and staring down at them. When he finally lifted his eyes to her, Sansa was staring back at him, her forehead creased with concern and her smile faded now.

"You're shaking," she whispered before giving his hands a small squeeze as she scooted closer to him, searching his face as she went.

Nodding his head as he closed his eyes, Sandor slowly lifted her hands, pressing a soft kiss to her fingers. He tried to still his trembling but found with each passing moment of silence, his resolve on that matter deteriorated.

"I've wronged you in so many ways, Sansa," he began, opening his eyes to her once more. "I've taken you away from everything you've ever known, and I've thrown you into my world. I've hurt you and confused you. I've done a lot of things in my life that I'm ashamed of. The things I've done against you top the list, and that's the truth.

"I could've just left the night of the Royce party, let that place burn to the ground and not look back. Since you've come here, I'm sure you've wondered why I didn't, and to be perfectly honest, I don't have an answer for you. I knew you were my brother's target that night, and so I made the decision to spare you from whatever he had planned. It was irrational, and it wasn't planned on my part, but to say I regretted it would be a lie. And I refuse to lie to you.

"What I do regret was how I handled things after that. If I could give you back everything that's been taken from you, I'd do it in a heartbeat. And I know it probably seems like I'm the one who has taken most of those things from you.

"I don't know what I have to do to make things right between us, but I'll do it. If you want me to keep away from you, I'll do it. If you want to go home, I'll take you home, back to your father; I'll do it."

By the irregular rise and fall of her chest, Sandor could tell she was drawing in shaky breaths. Tears were gathering in the corners of her eyes, threatening to break free at any moment. With his heartbeat loud in his own ears, Sandor waited for her response, each second of silence on her end feeling like an eternity.

"You never asked me before what I wanted, Sandor," she finally spoke, a tear breaking free and trailing down her cheek. "You made assumptions or decided for me. This is the first time you've asked what I want in all of this. You want to know what I want?"

"Yes. Tell me what you want," he urged, something of a plea. "Please. I'll do it for you. Whatever it is, I'll do it."

Despite the desperation fraying his words, Sansa gave an exasperated sigh as a pained expression settled on her face. Yet there was something else, something gaining on the pain and breaking through. He could see it in her eyes, the change in her voice as she spoke. Walls were coming down, and on the other side, he was seeing her for true. It was the strength she spoke with and the conviction she wielded which rendered him into yet another round of silence, words unspoken because he was in utter awe of her.

"You still don't get it. It's been a little over a month since I've been home. I have no idea what is happening with my father, the only family that I have left. I'm supposed to start school in a few weeks, but it looks unlikely that that will happen. I've had no contact with anyone I know. My entire life has been put on hold. I guess it's reasonable to assume that I want to go home; that as soon as it's safe, you can drop me back in Portland, and I'll just pick up where I left off. I'll have an interesting story to tell, but my life will just carry on as it did before. It's true that I do want to go home, but things aren't so simple, Sandor.

"My mother is gone. I still don't know what's happening with my father. I watched one of my best friends die, and I don't know what happened to the other. You took me away from home, but you have to understand that my life will never be the same. I know the things you have done for me, and I know you've saved my life more times than I'm probably even aware of. And I'm thankful for that."

Taking a breath to calm herself, Sansa began again - quieter this time and softer, too.

"I've been with you for a little over a month now. I've made connections to the people in your life, I've figured out when to ask questions and when to leave it alone, I've learned who most of your men are. And I see these people - your men - having families and caring for their wives and children, all of them loving each other as fiercely as any other person loves their family. So tell me why you're the one who has to choose whether or not you get to have that?

"If you take me home and leave it at that, you're taking something else away from me again. You. You're taking you away from me. And me away from you.

"All along, you've thought that I'm the one who isn't convinced, that you know so well what you feel and that you can't imagine I would feel the same. But it's you who has kept me away. You shut me out and tell me nothing. I don't want to be left in the dark anymore. I don't care if the entire world questions it. The entire world doesn't have to understand. But I need you to understand. Of all people, you need to understand.

"You're what I want. You. I want you, and I want my father. I want the people who mean something to me to stay in my life. That's what I want."

With no more room for hesitation or doubt, he released his hold on her hands and reached out for her, arms wrapping around her as he pulled her closer. She came willingly, crawling up into his lap as she snaked her arms around his neck, clinging to him as soundly as he was to her. Pressing his forehead against hers, he cradled her in his arms, each of them trembling like leaves against the breeze of a dying storm.

"I want you too," he breathed. "I would never just drop you back in Portland, tell you to have a nice life, and then leave it at that." Brushing his lips against her cheek, he planted soft kisses there before murmuring in her ear as he spoke. "I'm sorry. For everything that's happened, Sansa, for everything. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for the things I've said and done that have hurt you. I'm sorry for all the things I should have said and the things I should have done but didn't."

With his cheek now pressed against hers, one hand gently clasped at the back of her neck, Sandor could feel her nodding her head. Pulling away slightly so that he could look at her once more, he continued.

"I know I've apologized to you so many times before, and this shit just keeps happening. I don't want to keep telling you how sorry I am. I want to show you, and I know that it isn't easy, but I'll do it. Things are going to be different. I don't…"

He faltered momentarily and not for a lack of truth. Drawing in a deep breath, he persisted, his eyes set against hers as she stared back at him, consuming each of his words as eagerly as he had with hers.

"I don't want to be the Hound anymore, some big fucking murderous asshole, hurting the people who mean the most to me. I don't want it anymore. I don't. I want to be better. For you and for me, I want to be better than that. You deserve better, much better, than what I've shown you. I just want a chance to be the guy who gives that to you. I'm willing to change and to make it right. I just want one more shot with you."

Sansa could not save him, and her eyes alone bore the acknowledgement of that fact; the fear of his failure was lingering through the glinting of her tears. It was then that he knew it wasn't a question of if it could be done, absolution for the sins he had committed against all that mattered to him now. He knew now that it  _must_ be done. It was an oath that should be kept at all costs, irrevocable because there could be no resignation of possible failure, even if it meant forsaking the blood oath he had taken so many years ago.

He had once vowed to protect her, and he understood that to save himself was to protect Sansa from what had the most potential to hurt her. For too long, he had oscillated between believing himself to be a good man and manifesting the fear that he was not. Now was the time to finally swing the pendulum towards one side and achieve what she saw in him. It was a leap of faith for them both; she trusting he would come through for her and he trusting that whatever good she saw in him existed for true, enough to be proliferated towards something obtainable.

Sansa nodded her head, tears spilling free and running down her cheeks in continuous streams. Although she was biting her bottom lip, it quivered anyway. Urging its release, Sandor pressed his mouth to hers in a gentle kiss until he felt her lips part for him. He felt a shiver reverberate through her body as she shook against him, sniffling as more tears came. Deepening the kiss and capturing a sigh as it left her lips, Sandor ran his tongue delicately against hers, the give and take effortless as they fell into rhythm with one another.

More sniffles and a tiny whimper came as Sansa broke the kiss, the reluctance evident as she barely pulled away.

"What's wrong?" Sandor queried with brow furrowing, his heart thrumming once again as he saw anguish flood her countenance.

"Your mother's necklace," she barely managed to whisper before a gentle sob broke free from her lips. "Mirabelle told me about your mother…about what happened to her. I knew how much it meant to you, and I feel awful for what I did. I'm sorry, Sandor."

Releasing his breath, Sandor brushed away the tears with the back of his hand before placing a steady rotation of kisses about her lips, her cheeks, the bridge of her nose, and her forehead.

"It's okay," he reassured her, unwittingly rocking her in his arms as he laid kisses down the length of her neck. "Don't be sorry. We'll put all of this behind us. All of it."

He felt her hum against him, a contented sigh, and one of her hands delicately resting against his burned cheek, urging his lips back towards hers. No sooner had he obliged than his lips were captured in a kiss, warm and deep and wholly reassuring that she had missed his touch, his embrace, just as much as he had missed hers.

The cadence eventually slowed, their attentions to one another terminating in gentle licks and nips, and when it did, Sandor cupped her cheeks in each of his hands as she rested her own hands on his shoulders.

"Little bird, I don't keep you in the dark because I want to. I hope you know that. I worry that the more I tell you, the more danger I'll put you in. I've seen too many Moriarti women take the fall for their men because they knew too much. I just didn't want that to happen to you."

"I know that now," she nodded in reply before offering him a forlorn smile. "I want to know about my father, though. If you can tell me what happened, that's all I really want to know."

There was fear in her eyes now. He could see the hesitation there, curiosity battling an unwillingness to endure any more heartache.

"Your dad isn't in Portland anymore," Sandor began, brushing loose strands of her hair behind her ear as he spoke. "There are a lot of problems within the Portland police department, a lot of people who are working against him, although he didn't know it. He was told to get out of Dodge, so he did. When I saw him, he had been traveling south and was passing through Crescent City. He's been looking for you."

Tensing in his arms, Sansa leveled a sobered stare towards him, eyes wide and filled with an intensity he hadn't quite seen in her before.

"When you came back that night, you were covered in blood."

"It wasn't his. I didn't hurt him," Sandor divulged. Understanding bloomed across her face as he pointed to the fading bruise across his cheek bone.

"He did that to you?" she asked breathlessly.

Sandor nodded by way of reply.

"He caught me in the nose too, hence all the blood you saw. I'm fairly certain he figured out you're with me."

"How?" Sansa pressed as she shifted on his lap, gripping his shoulders for support.

"Beats the hell out of me," he responded with a shrug of the shoulders. "I tried my best to explain what I could to him: that there's a price on his head within the Severelli, that he needed to quit talking to Portland, and that he needed to fall off the grid. I don't know for certain if he's doing any of that. I've got some ideas of where he is, and I'm planning on sending a group of my men out to keep an eye on him, make sure nothing happens."

Sandor watched as Sansa's mouth dangled open as she drew in a gasping breath, her head shaking as if questioning the words she had just heard.

"You're protecting him," she all but whispered.

"Yeah, I guess so," Sandor replied quietly. "Never in a million fucking years did I ever think I'd see the day where I was protecting Ned Stark," he added with a chuckle.

Fixated on the information he had given her, Sansa did not return his laugh but instead stared at him intently.

"Why are you protecting him when he's the one who's been building a case against you, one which would put your away for the rest of your life?"

Although he had understood the irony in effectually protecting Ned Stark, Sandor hadn't questioned it.

"Because he's your father," he finally replied, returning her gaze and finding reason now where there hadn't been any before. "He's the only family you have left. I know what it feels like to lose the only family you have. And I would never want that for you. I know he means the world to you and you to him. When things with my brother are handled, I'll reach back out to him, and we'll go from there."

"Thank you, Sandor. You have no idea how much that means to me," Sansa murmured as she leaned forward, her lips brushing against his as she pressed a soft kiss there.

"Your brother is the one who did that to Mirabelle, isn't he?" Sansa inquired, unwilling to speak his brother's name or look him in the eye as she asked. Instead, she had rested her cheek against his chest as she curled up in his arms once more.

"Yes," Sandor replied on a rasp, his throat suddenly feeling dry. Whatever discomfort he felt at the turn in the conversation was quickly ushered away as he felt Sansa tracing her fingers slowly against his chest in a figure eight. He remembered now that she did that when her mind was abuzz with questions she was too timid to ask. Squeezing her tighter in his arms, Sandor rested his chin against the top of her head.

"You're going to kill him, aren't you?" she whispered against his chest on a fragile breath.

"Yes, I am," he affirmed quietly.

"When?" she asked a moment later.

"Whenever I find out where he is. It could be a couple days from now, weeks, months. I don't know for sure."

Another intercession of silence settled between them before he felt Sansa stir against him, pushing herself up so that she could look upon his face. When he met her stare, he found fear was there once more.

"What if-" she began, her voice succumbing to fear as it quivered from her lips.

"Nowhat ifs _,_ " Sandor interrupted with a firm shake of his head. "I will make him pay, and then I will be coming back to you."

She moved to speak again, her lips parting as if to ask another question or voice another concern. Pulling her against him, Sandor seized her mouth once more, silencing any doubts for now as he administered slow, dawdling kisses. With her in his arms, he rose from the seat and felt as Sansa instinctively wrapped her legs around his hips.

After a few measured steps towards the center of the room, Sandor could feel the sunlight warm against the back of his neck. Carefully, he lowered himself to his knees and laid Sansa down before settling gently on top of her. Propping himself up on one elbow, Sandor stared down at her, softly tracing the curve of her cheek and the line of her jaw with the back of his knuckles. She gave a sweet smile as she reached up and cupped his cheek.

He had questioned love before, not understanding how to recognize it and wondering what, if anything, in his life could ever be designated as such. He understood now its features, all the facets it possessed that were wholly unique to its notion: the acceptance, the inherent strength, the forgiveness, the healing, the purity, the light. And with an even more profound understanding, he knew how to designate it now because he was looking at it, at her. All he had left to do was confess this understanding, to breathe it to life.

Leaning into her hand still caressing his cheek, Sandor drew in a breath, resolved to share with her this one last truth, the only thing left unspoken. Before he could speak, though, Sansa had pulled him down against her, arms wrapped around him as she claimed his lips.

How long they stayed like this - rediscovering one another through warm kisses and tentative touches, hearts beating madly in their chests, fingers interlaced, bodies intertwined - he could not say. When they finally came up for a breath, the sun had shifted across the room. Scooting over towards it, Sandor settled on his back with Sansa's head resting against his chest as she draped one arm across his middle. Bathed in the light and the warmth of the sun, he closed his eyes and studied the rhythm of her breathing, feeling as it slowed until finally she had drifted into a soft sleep. He whispered the words to her then, simple and liberating.

"I love you."

With that, Sandor pressed a kiss to Sansa's forehead before following her into sleep.

* * *

Alberto had been the one to rouse them, standing over them with an amused grin on his face as both she and Sandor stared up at him, bleary-eyed from sleep and still wrapped tightly in each other's arms.

The Moriarti patriarch had chuckled at them as he nudged them awake and made a passing comment about their reunion, although Sansa could not remember his exact words, as lingering traces of sleep had fogged her memory. What she did remember was the genuine, albeit subtle, vestiges of delight that seemed to cling to Alberto's features as he happened upon them.

The room was darker when they awoke, the sun having been cast over once more by a thick mass of storm clouds as they were informed of the time. Sansa had had a half hour to reassemble her hair and touch up her makeup. She grabbed a cardigan, anticipating a chill to the air as she glanced out the window, and opted for black ballet flats instead of the heels she had originally intended on wearing.

Appearing put together once more, Sansa had hurried down the stairs and found Sandor waiting for her in the foyer, gazing up at her appreciatively and extending his hand to her as she approached the bottom landing of the staircase.

His jeans and blue T-shirt had been exchanged for a black, three-piece suit obviously made from quality fabric and well-tailored to fit his form. Beneath his waist coat, he had donned a dark grey dress shirt with a patterned grey tie. He had let his hair down, brushed out in subtle raven-colored waves which fell past his shoulders, and as she approached she could smell his cologne. She remembered the familiar scent of it as she breathed him in, realizing it was something she had thoroughly missed. Funny how the small things seemed to have slipped to the back of her memory in their time apart to resurface little by little, reminders of things forgotten.

Intuitively, she sensed a disconnect within him, one that hadn't been there earlier. Outwardly, he was immaculately put together, the façade of a man who had mastered his emotions and would remain stoic as stone, a god of his own world carved in marble to betray nothing of what stirred beneath. She understood him, though, better than she had before because together they had torn down the walls that stood between them. She had broken through, and beneath the control he exuded over his external world, she had seen vulnerability in him. And now she sensed his pain was beginning to bubble up from waters that had been calmed but still ran deep.

A half smile broke through his stern countenance as she slipped her hand into his. She could feel a black mass of sorrow settling over them,  _all_ of them - a collective unconscious filled with grim foreboding as the Moriarti mansion stirred with mourners, each possessing a forlorn glaze over their eyes as they shuffled to cars, umbrellas in hand.

She and Sandor rode together to Las Vegas for the funeral proceedings accompanied by Alberto, who sat opposite to them in the black limo that arrived for the family of the deceased. It occurred to Sansa then that Sandor was the only true family Mirabelle had had left. To call Gregor her flesh and blood would surely be a mockery that even the gods would laugh at until bitter tears fell from the sky as a cold, soaking rain. And indeed they must have found something worthy of mockery, for rain was now upon them, manifesting as a drizzling mist.

They waited for Bronn to join them, and when he did finally appear, it was only long enough to inform them that he would be riding with Zulu today. Locking eyes with Bronn, Sandor only nodded silently at the mention of the boy's name, and Sansa searched his face for affront, any sort of visual indication that he was privy to what transpired last night. Beyond that momentary exchange, nothing more was said, and after Bronn ambled off towards another vehicle, Sandor offered Alberto a tense smile to which the old man gave a slight shrug of his shoulders.

Long ago, Sansa would have been flattered by Zulu's confession of the affections he felt towards her. She would have blushed graciously after his kiss and doted on the scenario for days to come, dreamily imagining how things might play out between them in the future. Zulu had offered to love her, had offered to take her away, to give her everything he thought she wanted. He had appealed to the whimsies of the girl she used to be. In doing so, he had blinded himself to what she truly wanted when all was said and done.

In their silent moments together this morning, Sansa had wanted to tell Sandor what happened. The words had been on the tip of her tongue, but fear had taken a hold of her then - fear that the quiet contentment they had again found with one another would be ripped from her if she told him. Instead of sullying the moment, she resolved herself to wait until a better time, a time when emotions had calmed and rationality could reign in place of heated upset.

She wondered now if she had been wise in waiting. Surely, she was a hypocrite - going on about being left in the dark and requesting the entirety of truth from him while she held fast to this secret. Ultimately, she would tell Sandor, for she sensed that secrets between them were a slow venom to what they had only just repaired mere hours ago.

She had not seen Zulu today. He hadn't been waiting to escort her downstairs for breakfast as he had every morning since they returned here. When she tiptoed into the hallway at a quarter to nine, she had found it empty. When she headed downstairs to the kitchen bustling with some of the wives making chit chat over cups of coffee, she hadn't found him there either. Perhaps it was for the best, she decided. Either way, she felt a pang of loss. He was her friend after Mirabelle, and now he was likely to keep his distance. She could only hope it was Zulu's preemptive effort at getting into Sandor's good graces and not his disdain at her refusing him anything more than friendship.

Shame flushed across her cheeks as she recalled her missed opportunity to tell Sandor what had happened. It wasn't so simple, a part of her seemed to whisper. She did not wish harm to befall Zulu, and certainly Sandor would take great offense to what had happened. Regardless, today was not the day to burden him with that knowledge. Surely, there was enough for his heart to toil over.

The car ride proceeded in uninterrupted silence. With Sandor pressed up against her - his arm and thigh flush with hers and his hand engulfing her own, fingers entwined, as it rested on his lap - it seemed he could not get close enough; that if it were up to him, she'd be tucked in his arms until he deemed it absolutely necessary to let go. That was something they could agree on. Sansa rested her head against his shoulder, unwittingly nuzzling her check against him to which he responded with a gentle squeeze of her hand and a soft kiss to the top of her head.

Moriarti seemed to study both her and Sandor for the duration of the trip, the faintest smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, or so Sansa could have sworn. When she would catch sight of him doing this, Alberto would simply give a slight nod of the head and then avert his eyes out the window as if to gaze upon the scenery, finding false wonder in a dreadfully dull expanse of gloomy desert.

As she watched the mile markers tick by, Sansa could feel Sandor fidgeting next to her, equal measures restless and uneasy. The reticence that had befallen the three of them was no longer a calm sort of quietude. Instead, it had grown heavy with an anguished anticipation that had quickly turned stifling by the time the limo pulled in front of the church.

When the car came to a stop, the engine humming and the driver waiting for the three of them to exit, Sansa watched as Sandor pulled in a deep breath. Gazing down at their hands still intertwined, he closed his eyes softly as if in prayer, drawing what strength he could before turning to look at the church.

Sansa followed his stare out the window, the church beyond stunning to behold. It boasted a gothic façade: weathered stone, elaborately carved pinnacles and gables, a set of twin bell towers reaching towards the heavens, and nestled amongst it all, circular windows of pieced-together stained glass.

Exchanging austere glances with one another, Alberto and Sandor seemed to simultaneously exhale a sigh before stepping from the vehicle. Once more extending his hand to her, Sandor helped Sansa from the car, shutting the door behind her and stopping momentarily as he stared at the church, jaw tensing as he chewed his bottom lip.

For many moments, he stood where he was, Alberto having flittered off as he greeted individuals gathered outside the church. She felt Sandor's hand beginning to tremble and looked up to find that his brows had drawn together in obvious distress.  _He doesn't want to go in,_ she thought to herself, understanding that he knew somewhere inside the walls of the massive stone structure before them was his sister. And despite the beauty she was resting beneath, nothing would assuage the pain now pressing against him.

"It's going to be okay," Sansa offered gently, resting one hand against his chest while giving a small squeeze with her other hand still holding his.

Releasing a breath he had apparently been holding, Sandor began the slow walk towards the steps leading up to the church, greeting others with a silent nod as he passed.

Enchanted by the church and the sheer number of people gathered outside, Sansa hadn't noticed that Sandor stopped moving, something having captured his undivided attention. When she moved to step forward and continue on with the other funeral goers towards the entrance, she was met with some resistance as Sandor had, quite literally, stopped in his tracks. His hand gripped tightly around hers as Sansa turned to see what had become the source of his full attention.

Parked across the street from the church was a black SUV with its windows thickly tinted so that the occupants of the vehicle were completely obscured. A man was perched against the side of the car, arms crossed about his chest as he continued to lock eyes with Sandor. Dressed in a grey suit with a white button down shirt and a blue-striped tie, Sansa couldn't quit puzzle out if he had come to pay his respects. By the way the man was staring daggers at Sandor, who had stilled beside her and was now muttering expletives beneath his breath, Sansa imagined the man was not here for the funeral.

"Who is that?" Sansa inquired, not entirely certain she wanted to know the answer but found herself asking anyway.

"He's an inspector from the Las Vegas Police Department," Sandor replied, his words heavy and seemingly loaded. "He was at the funeral home last night after Marco showed up dead."

As if somehow privy to the words just spoken, the man disentangled his arms from across his chest and rested his hands on his hips. In doing so, he pushed back the sides of his suit jacket to reveal a shoulder holster with two pistols on either side of his chest.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Sandor seethed as he instinctively clasped Sansa's hand tighter. "That goddamned son-of-a-bitch."

The man had roused the attention of others around them, a few of which had shifted their eyes towards Sandor as they evaluated his reaction. Bronn paced over to Sandor, Zulu by his side, all three of them watching and waiting for  _something_ to happen. After a few moments, the police inspector flashed a wide grin before hopping into the passenger seat of the vehicle, which then sped off down the street and out of sight.

"Business as usual for him. He's just being a prick," Bronn assured as he patted Sandor on the back and continued on inside the church, Zulu casting a furtive glance towards Sansa before following along.

Sandor did not seem convinced by Bronn's words, as his eyes flickered up and down the street, warily watching as if he expected the SUV to pull up again at any moment. She wanted to ask why the inspector would make an appearance today of all days but bit her tongue instead as she and Sandor went inside the church, hand-in-hand. The vestibule was packed with people gathered in clusters, speaking quietly with one another and many delicately dabbing at tears with handkerchiefs or tissues. Quickly navigating through the crowd, Sandor led the way from the vestibule towards the open expanse of the church beyond.

If the outside was stunning, the inside was surely designed to eclipse the beauty of the exterior, for it was absolutely breathtaking. In her time spent amongst the Italian mothers, Sansa had overheard bits and pieces of their conversation regarding the church that had been reserved for the funeral service. Even in broken English interspersed with Italian words, Sansa had understood it was going to be beautiful, but she could have never dreamed up what was before her eyes.

She marveled at the mosaics which covered the ceiling and extended down archways flanking either side of the open space. Catching the light from large, ornate pendant lights hanging from above, the pieces of mosaic glass glittered in jewel tones - topaz, ruby, azure, emerald, and amethyst - all depicting various biblical scenes Sansa was only vaguely familiar with. Along each wall, marbled columns extended the full height from floor to ceiling, and set in front of each was a tall candleabra with nine white pillar candles, flames dancing.

As they worked their way towards the front, they passed long rows of wooden pews, each filled with mourners dressed in shades of black and grey: men with their wives or perhaps their goomahs, squirming children, old couples looking on and offering sad smiles as she and Sandor passed. Sansa had begun to learn the faces she had seen around the Moriarti mansion, and yet those familiar faces were dispersed amongst a sea of people she did not recognize. She had been to weddings and funerals before, but truly she had never seen a turn out like this.

Sansa caught the scent of flowers as they approached the front row of pews. Sandor's pace had slowed by then, and he stood staring at his sister's white casket set in front of the steps of the altar. Surrounding her casket were the same flowers Sansa had seen at the visitation, and now more had been added to them, each arrangement more beautiful, fragrant, and elaborate than the last.

For many moments, Sandor stayed rooted where he was, his eyes fixed on the casket as disbelief began to fissure his stoicism. It was real to him now. She could see the acknowledgement in his eyes as denial was cast away. He sighed a shuddering breath, which caught in his throat, his eyes now glassy and reflecting the light of the candles burning in ornate brass candleabras on the altar. Sansa stood by his side, running her thumb over the back of his hand in a small gesture of comfort, futile as it might be. She felt him trembling once more, and when the organ sounded behind them with a sorrowful requiem hymn, Sandor wiped his nose with the back of his hand and moved towards the front pew.

Bronn and Alberto scooted down to make room for them, but before she and Sandor could be seated, the congregation of funeral attendees had stood as the priest made his way down the center aisle in a slow dawdle. As the priest ascended the steps of the altar and settled in front of the podium to speak, the rows of attendees seated themselves once more, the church falling silent save for a few echoing coughs and sniffles.

As the priest spoke, arms lifted with the white sleeves of his robe hanging down, his voice booming through the marble and mosaic expanse of the church, Sansa shifted her gaze to Sandor when she heard his breathing becoming louder. Staring at his sister's casket once more, he was paying no mind to the words being spoken. Instead, tears were now gathering in his eyes, which were rimmed in red. He must have noticed she was looking at him because he turned his attention to the priest then, swallowing hard and breathing in deep to stave off the tears.

After the priest introduced the service, he stepped off to the side as Arianne, Mirabelle's friend, approached the podium. With her cheeks stained with tears as she read a passage from the Bible, her voice faltering and cracking with grief, Sansa still thought she looked beautiful and felt her own tears stinging her eyes now.

When she heard a soft sob next to her, Sansa looked to find Bronn, who was seated next to Sandor, pinching the bridge of his nose as he gasped for breaths. Wrapping one arm around his shoulders, Alberto pulled Bronn closer to him, patting his back and whispering words of comfort in his ear.

After Arianne descended from the podium, the priest led the congregation in prayer, half of the room repeating the words along with him while the other half remained silent, perhaps quietly speaking their own prayers, for they did not know the words to the one echoing around them. It was the same for the hymn sung afterwards, even fewer knowing the words to that.

As the priest delivered his sermon - remarking on the bittersweet sorrow to life's end and to the rejoicing at Mirabelle's return to God's kingdom - Sansa could hear more cries breaking out around her - men and women sniffling and gasping for breaths. She had anticipated the same from Sandor, for the release of his anguish to come as it had for those around them, but he had stilled beside her, his breathing quieter, and she could tell he was fighting that release as much as he was fighting the urge to gaze upon Mirabelle's casket. If he looked now, he would come undone, and for some reason Sandor had resolved himself to hold the pieces of his heart together for a little while longer, though Sansa could not say why.

More readings and hymns were spoken and sung, and when the priest returned to the podium, he called forth Alberto, nodding his head towards the man with a grim smile. Silence fell around them once more as Alberto calmly stood and smoothed down the front of his suit jacket before pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket. As Alberto Moriarti took to the podium, it seemed as though every set of eyes in the room was on him, and a quick glance over her shoulder all but confirmed this.

Alberto scanned the room as he unfolded the paper and pressed it to the podium, clearing his throat and drawing in a deep breath before speaking. When he did finally begin to speak, the man had rendered the room captivated, his words eloquent and wise as ever, but Sansa was now seeing the man who had invested his whole life into his father's legacy. She saw him perhaps as he was when he was the boss of the organization and others answered to him. There was conviction and a sense of responsibility to people seated before him which incited his passion, resounding through each word spoken as clearly as it echoed through the church.

"'Life is a scoundrel, and it will break your heart,' someone once told me, an admonition of sorts, I suppose. 'Stay on the surface,' is what I believe they were really saying. After all, it's safer that way.

"And it is a truth of humanity that many tend to remain content by blissfully skating along the surfaces of life, forever wondering what lies beneath that surface but too afraid to find out for themselves because, after all, it might hurt.

"Indeed, that may be true, but what is truly gained in a sanctuary of complacency and numbness, forever going through the motions as to be unscathed by life? Instead, we should break through the surface and plumb the depths, unsettling as they may be, choosing instead to experience the fullest heights of elation and plunging nadirs of sorrow."

Sighing as he closed his eyes, Alberto gave pause. When he did, Sansa could hear the sounds of Bronn's vain attempt at quieting his cries. They echoed around him, inspiring tears in the eyes of all who could see and hear how profoundly he was suffering. Sansa felt her own tears spilling down her cheeks, her chest tightening with each breath. With something between a sigh and a moan, Sandor disentangled his hand from hers, leaning forward as he rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in the palms of his hands. His breathing had become erratic, she could see; he seemed to be taking sharp, short breaths and was now visibly trembling.

"To feel is to be human," Alberto continued shakily. "Your heart may break; lovers, family, friends may come and go and leave your life in ruins, but you are better for it. You lived, loved, breathed, and died knowing what it feels to be human. And when you return to the stars, you will shine brighter and bluer because of that esoteric knowledge of the human heart's struggle, which touches our souls and enriches our lives.

"We imprint one another with love and light, those memories the markings we bear on our soul. Our bodies disintegrate to ash and dust, but our legacy is written in the memories held in the hearts of those we leave behind. Often it is said that those who pass on before us watch from above, perched on some star far away in the heavens. Yet who is to say that they should be so far?

"In dreams, waking visions, fleeting thoughts, resuscitated memories, and shared stories, Mirabelle remains with us. Not in some ambiguous place up above, but here." Lifting his hand, Alberto rested it over his heart.

"Great love can be measured against great sorrow; to know the former, we accept the eventual knowledge of the latter. It is a sacrifice we make upon first breath, and it is a contract between ourselves and those who mean the most to us in this lifetime. We inscribe in each other's hearts words which comfort us in the hour of letting go: 'I'll lose you for a little while,' these words say. 'See me through the rest of this life. Infiltrate my thoughts in the waking hours with the memory of your laughter. Visit me in dreams with conversations we once shared, the silly things you used to say. I would have done…'" As his voice broke, the words caught in Alberto's throat. Staring down at the podium, the man all but choked out the final words of his eulogy as his voice became strained with grief.

"I would have done the same for you. It's only for a little while, only until we meet again. And we'll meet again."

With his head in his hands, Sandor could not see Alberto falling apart on the podium, but surely he could hear that the man was close to unraveling. Sandor's body quivered and quaked as he was wracked with sobs, each shuddering through him with force but hardly a sound. The organ's music began once more as Alberto descended the steps of the altar and sat back down. Just as Sansa reached out to him, Sandor sat back up, his eyes swollen as he drew in breaths to regain his composure.

In the row across from them, six men rose from the pew and headed towards the front, each taking their place in a predetermined formation around Mirabelle's casket. No sooner had he wiped the tears away from his eyes did Sansa see Sandor fighting to maintain his outward reserve. It was a small consolation to losing the last of his true kin - to preserve his composure in front of all those who had gathered. He did not want to come undone in front of them, she understood that now.

As the priest stepped in front of the casket with his Bible clutched close to his chest and the pallbearers began down the center aisle, Sandor's eyes flickered over to her momentarily, a heavy loneliness evident. He had told her that he knew what it felt like to lose the only family he had had left and that he never wished for her to understand that particular pain. He trailed, now, after his sister's casket, alone because he had been her only kin. Passing each row of mourners, the others looked on with pity, watching Sandor as he went. A custom meant to comfort the family of the deceased - to follow them towards their final resting place - now seemed a mockery of his suffering.

Sansa pushed past Bronn, wriggling her arm free as he reached for her and sought to still her. With a resolved inertia moving her body forward in movements automatic and undisputed in her own mind, even despite these contrived funerary customs, Sansa unburdened herself from Bronn's silent protests and stepped out of the pew. In hurried steps padding against the marble floor, she worked her way down the center aisle, leaving a wave of astounded whispers in her wake as she passed each packed row of mourners.

On the left and on the right, they all gawked at her - gaping holes for mouths and wide pools of confusion for eyes. One by one, they gained their words and whispered them to one another. She didn't hear them any more than she really saw them. With her heart pounding a clamorous beat loud in her own ears, Sansa moved down the aisle, her legs carrying her in a jaunt that wasn't quite a run but possessed an urgency that a mere walk couldn't.

She reached him as he passed the last row of pews, her hand reaching out to his and gripping tightly as she wrapped her fingers around his. When he turned to look at her, confusion flooding his face, Sansa could see the tears beginning to stream down his cheeks.

"You're not alone," she exhaled, swiping the tears away from her own cheeks. Stunned, he stared down at her, speechless as his mouth opened but no words came.

"You're not alone, Sandor," she repeated, wrapping her arms around his middle and burying her face against his chest.

She couldn't say with absolute certainty that these were the words he needed to hear right now, but as she felt one of his arms snake across the small of her back and the other around her shoulders as he held her tightly against him, the understanding passed between them, as silent and unspoken as it ever was. They had accessed a part of one another that it seemed the rest of the world was not privy to. Just as Alberto had spoken not moments earlier, with that access came the potential for great sorrow or for great love, the enormous ability to wound one another or the power to forge a bond that could be rendered unbreakable and transcendent of life itself. Together, they had chosen the latter.

And together they walked, hand-in-hand, the rest of the way out of the church and down the front steps towards the waiting limo, the others following somewhere behind them. Alberto did not return to the limo but instead comforted Bronn as they walked towards a different vehicle.

Wrapping her up in an embrace, Sandor held onto her, pulling her as close to him as he could manage before the limo lurched forward.

"Sansa." Her name rustled from his lips, stirring up the strands of her hair come loose as he whispered against her neck. He had managed a small victory for the day, which was far from over.

The burial service was a small gathering, everyone huddled beneath umbrellas as the rain fell cold and hard. He had said he couldn't do it, gazing out the window as mourners trekked up a small hill to Mirabelle's final resting spot. Taking his hand, she assured him that he could.  _'I'll be next to you the entire time. We'll go together,'_ Sansa had told him.

Seated in the front row next to Mirabelle's grave side, he hadn't let go of her hand. Despite his suit jacket draped over her shoulders, she shivered against him as a peculiar chill set in, the wind picking up steadily and whipping against the mourners all clutching to their umbrellas. After the priest said his final words and offered Sandor his sincerest condolences, those who had gathered passed by Mirabelle's casket one last time before retreating away.

In the end, she, Sandor, and Bronn were the only ones left standing by Mirabelle's grave. The world had fallen silent, all except the gentle pattering of rain drops against the umbrella above them. Sansa had asked Sandor if he wanted to be alone for a moment. Without taking his eyes off of his sister's casket, he had shaken his head and wrapped his arm around her. Before they left, Sandor circled around to the other side of the casket where Bronn was standing with hands in his pockets as he refused to take an umbrella. Sansa watched as Sandor pulled Bronn, who broke down then, into his arms. He clung to Sandor and cried out in anguish, his sobs muffled as he buried his face into Sandor's shoulder.

When they arrived back at the Moriarti mansion, the half-circle drive was filled with vehicles as people gathered for an early dinner. Once more, Sandor had declared to her that he simply couldn't do it. He did not want to go inside, offer forced smiles as he collected condolences, each one driving home the reminder that his sister was now buried in the ground.

She reassured him he could.  _'I'll be next to you the entire time. We'll go together.'_

And so they did: Sansa staying by his side and carrying on polite conversation so he did not have to feel compelled to do so on his own. She encouraged him to eat something, assuring him that he would feel better if he did. He agreed, and they ate a small meal, sitting down at a table of individuals they hadn't yet spoken with. The conversation was kept light, and at one point, she had even heard Sandor laugh at a story one of the other men at the table had told.

When he turned to look at her, Sansa immediately understood the look in his eyes. Sandor had had enough, had done his duty for the day, and was ready to withdraw. They left the table, exchanging farewells and parting words before quickly stealing away towards the foyer.

He led her by the hand upstairs, stopping in front of the doorway to his bedroom. In the darkness of the hallway, Sansa could feel him shift against her, his hands settling on either side of her face, the pad of his thumb brushing against her bottom lip.

"Will you stay with me?" he murmured softly, gently pressing a kiss to her lips and running his tongue against hers.

With her mouth preoccupied for the moment, Sansa nodded by way of reply. Slowly breaking the kiss, Sandor pushed open his bedroom door, leading her in carefully as he felt for the light switch and flicked on the lights before closing the door behind them.

She had never been inside his bedroom before. It was larger than the one she slept in. In fact, everything was larger in here: the bed, the connected bathroom, the oversized mirror hanging on the opposite wall of the door. Sandor kept it clean too, everything orderly and nothing frivolous about the way it was decorated either. It seemed he had opted for function over aesthetics.

Sansa stood at the center of the room, uncertain what to say or do, if she should sit or stand. Rubbing her arms to drive in warmth, she watched as Sandor took off his watch and tossed it on top of his dresser before digging through one of the drawers. After he had pulled out a black article of clothing, he paced towards Sansa and handed her the long sleeved shirt in his hands.

"I figured this would be more comfortable," he intoned, running one of his hands through his hair. Sansa gave a timid smile as she took the shirt from him.

"Thank you," she all but whispered before retreating to his bathroom to change. She slipped out of her dress, which had become damp in spots and itchy where the lace fabric had been rubbing against her arms. Standing in her bra and underwear, Sansa undid her hair, sighing with a bit of relief as it was freed from the tight bun it had been in and came cascading over her shoulders. She unhooked her bra, setting it and her dress on the granite sink countertop. Pulling Sandor's shirt on, Sansa gave a small giggle as it fell midway down her thighs and the sleeves engulfed her arms with an excess of fabric. It seemed she had exchanged one black dress for another, for surely Sandor's shirt could function as a dress on her.

When she stepped from the bathroom, Sandor was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on knees and his fingers steepled as he stared down at them. He had removed his suit jacket, waist coat, and shoulder holster, still sporting the twin pistols on either side, all draped over the back of the leather club chair in the corner of the room. The overhead lights were turned off, and instead, the nightstand lamp was feebly casting a dull sphere of light around the bed.

In soft steps, she padded over to the bed, crawling up next to him as she rested one hand on his back, the other on his forearm. Quietly, they stayed like this for many long moments, but as Sansa began to gently run circles over his back with the tips of her fingers, she felt a shudder move through him, and slowly he began to tremble beneath her touch. He was fighting against it again, she knew. Tooth and nail, he was battling the urge to come undone and the intensity of the war he waged against his own sorrow manifested on those trembles, becoming more forceful and violent as the minutes wore on.

Wrapping her arm around him and pressing her cheek against his shoulder as she scooted closer, she whispered quietly to him.

"It's just you and me here," she reassured, planting kisses against his cheek. "You can let go, Sandor. You can let go."

And with those words, he did let go. Burying his face in his hands, Sandor released his grief in sobs that rolled through his body and seemed to steal the air from his lungs as he gasped for breaths in between. Her heart ached for him,  _with_ him, and true to her word, she did not leave his side. She was right there with him the entire time, seeing him through with soft touches and gentle words, as he had finally succumbed to his heartache.

When he had quieted and Sansa could hear his breaths coming even, Sandor sat up, his eyes swollen from crying. She helped him out of his shirt, unbuttoning it as he kicked off his shoes. After shucking out of his pants, he crawled back onto the bed, sniffling as he went and pulling Sansa underneath the covers with him as he laid against the pillow.

Wrapping one arm around her as she rested her head against his chest, he had his other arm thrown across his eyes. His tears came quieter now and in steady, silent streams running down his cheeks and over his chin. With her finger tips tracing random shapes against the fabric of his undershirt, Sansa began to hum quietly, unwittingly. Sandor seemed to listen as he twirled strands of her hair between his fingers. Eventually, the sniffling stopped and the rise and fall of his chest became deeper. In soft, whispering breaths at first, Sansa began to sing; it was a song she remembered her mother singing on lazy Sundays while washing dishes in the kitchen or sewing buttons on her father's work shirts. She felt Sandor's fingers curl around her waist as her song continued on, the delicate melody and tender words ushering him off to an eventual sleep.

With her head against his chest and the sound of his heart beating a peaceful rhythm, Sansa continued tracing mindless patterns about his chest. Curled up against him as the rain patted the roof and ran down the window panes in rivulets, she could hear his voice in her head.

_I love you._

In a dream, she thought she had heard him say it, only to realize now that it was not in a dream that she had heard those words from him. He had whispered them while she was on the precipice of sleep, his declaration lost somewhere between wakefulness and slumber. She remembered now, and propping herself up on her elbow, Sansa watched as he slept, his arm still thrown over his eyes.

"I love you too," she whispered back to him.

Just as she was about to lay back down next to him, he pulled his arm away from his face and stared up at her. The vulnerability she had sensed in him before was now evident, written in his eyes and the way he gazed at her with wonder.

He shifted towards her, rolling her onto her back as he gently settled down on top of her. One of his hands cupped her cheek while strands of his hair brushed against the other cheek. Leaning down, he claimed her lips, deepening the kiss with a slow, hungry fervor as he rocked his hips against her. The way he regarded her had changed, she had seen it as soon as he came to her this morning. But even the way he administered his touches and kisses had changed too. There was no longer an obsessive need or unbridled desire to possess her as his own. The bond they shared before had been ripped to pieces, burned to ash and dust, perhaps to never be realized again. Yet somehow, sorrow and contrition had been an equalizing force between them, and they had returned to one another to rebuild what they had lost. Piece by piece and side by side, they would do it together as true equals in the partnership they shared.

Pressing one more kiss to her lips, the tip of her nose, and then to her forehead, Sandor laid back down beside her, wrapping her up in his arms as he held her tight against him. Sansa stayed like this through the night and until the morning. No more waking from nightmares with tears streaming down her face, no more sleepless nights spent tossing and turning, no more reaching out to an empty space in the bed beside her. Instead, she found herself in a sweet, dreamless sleep, tucked warm and safe by Sandor's side.

* * *

_Mafia dictionary_

**Administration:** The "upper level" of a mafia family which includes the boss, underboss, and consigliere.

 **Caporegime:** Another way of saying capo, which is short for caporegime.

 **Soldiers:** The made men working beneath a capo whose crew is made up of soldiers.

 **Packing:** Armed with guns.

_Song List_

**Ch. 14**

"Last Kiss" J. Frank Wilson and the Cavaliers

"The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" Johnny Cash

"Good Morning, Magpie" Murder by Death

"Songbird" Fleetwood Mac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to mendedheart for beta'ing! She is a champion.
> 
> This chapter is a huge milestone in this story because the major facets of its content have been planned since last June.
> 
> To me, it's the revealing of the wild card. The one I've been holding on to since the very beginning, biting my tongue as some have railed against the dark road I've taken this down or have abandoned it altogether.
> 
> This is a story of redemption and one that does not begin as this poor soul emerges victorious after a long journey of healing. Instead, I've driven this tale through loss and pain, ending up at the lowest of lows, the most pitiful place a person can dwell, to take us where we are now: the choice to be better and the realization that even in darkness there is always the promise of light if we choose to open our eyes and see.
> 
> And rather than skip the parts where it gets hard and it hurts and it's ugly, I choose to write about all that instead because its part and parcel to the journey towards being something better than what we are.
> 
> So I thank you all for sticking through it, for continuing on although it hasn't been all declarations of love and gratuitous affections. I thank you for your support and I have long said that I have the most amazing, thoughtful readers. I believe that wholeheartedly and I cannot thank you enough.
> 
> Rest assured, though, this tale is far from over...
> 
> I've reevaluated/reorganized my tumblr. I've started a new blog which is more fic related. There you'll find goodies related mostly to this fic as well as Thunderstruck.
> 
> Feel free to follow me: supernovas-gods-and-monsters.tumblr.com


	15. Chapter 15

**Gods and Monsters**

Chapter 15

* * *

For the past two nights, Sandor had been plagued by nightmares. His legs would descend into a fit of spasms, his breathing became erratic, and he would murmur spiteful words in his sleep. They were the same words he was undoubtedly shouting in his dreams, bellowing from the recesses of his own mind and heart. Sansa would wake, gently raking her fingers through his hair, and whisper lovely sentiments to him until he was eventually roused from sleep. Panting as he stared at the ceiling, chest heaving and sweat beading on his brow, he would say nothing of what sordid thoughts followed him through the darkness behind his eyes. Instead, he would roll over, gather her in his arms, and sigh deeply before falling asleep once more.

When she awoke before dawn, Sansa had not found him in bed. Blinking away the bleariness of fatigue, she instead saw Sandor staring out the window of the bedroom they now shared with the curtains draped against his silhouette. She had watched him for many quiet moments, wondering what thoughts comprised his waking hours. He had stood bare-chested with arms at his sides and his hands curled into fists, staring out in the world that raged with turmoil beneath the surface of stillness.

Tip-toeing from bed to his side, Sansa had slowly coiled her arms around his chest, pressing her cheek against his back as she whispered to him.

"Come back to bed."

She had been uncertain if he heard her, for he did not speak. She counted his breaths by the rise and fall of his back against her chest, and she waited for his reply. When it came, it had been a deep rasp, troubled and exhausted.

"I can't sleep. My mind won't stop. There's too much to think about, too much to be done."

Sansa had pressed a kiss to his back then and ran her fingers lightly across his chest, something that seemed to comfort and soothe him.

"Sandor, nothing can be done this early in the morning."

Despite her words being spoken through the veil of sleepiness, he had relented and let her lead him by the hand back to bed, curling his body around hers as they burrowed beneath the blankets together. It was the tempo of Sandor's breathing by which Sansa knew he stayed awake. She had learned, or perhaps rediscovered, the rhythm of his breath, the cadence of his walk, the thrum of his heartbeat. There was an unanticipated thrill at knowing these things - these  _small_ things - about him and she imagined that perhaps it was the same for him.

But long before she knew these things of him, Sansa had learned that Sandor was not a man of patience. The first words he had ever spoken to her where a seething admission of this fact. He hated to wait on anyone or anything. It burned him up, she knew, that he must wait for the impending battle between himself and his brother - the opportunity to right all the wrong that had been done to him by Gregor's hands.

Sandor hadn't spoken of Mirabelle since he laid her to rest. However, Sansa knew when he was thinking of his sister. He would grow silent and still, his eyes focusing off towards the far distance as a pained expression would flood the features of his face. Sansa would take his hand then or rest her head against his shoulder, but she never asked for him to share his sorrow with her. They would sit in silence until it passed and he returned to her once more.

He was sitting up now against the headboard of the bed, pillows behind his back and his limbs encasing her as she rested against his chest. It had been many hours since the sun had finally come up. With its light there was comfort, the darkness being chased away, and along with it, Sandor's unspoken troubles. When either of them began to lazily stretch and sigh and exhibit other signs of finally rising for the day, the other would lure them back with warm arms and soft kisses.

In the last round, it was Sansa who had sat up, legs dangling off the side of the bed as she rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. In one swift movement, two willful arms wrapped around her middle and pulled her back under the covers. She had giggled and squealed and ultimately surrendered, when in the warm darkness beneath the blankets, she felt his lips eager against her neck. His hand had trailed beneath her shirt - or rather  _his_ shirt that she had been wearing as a nightgown of sorts - and he seemed to delight at the smoothness of her skin, the soft buds of her nipples, the tiny gasps she gave as he nipped at her neck and gently cupped her breasts. She beamed with joy, though he could not see, and exalted at his touch.

_I shouldn't be this happy._

The intrusive thought had found her once more. It seemed content to chase her down in moments such as these. Tragedy would have its due, she feared; it would collect when she least expected it. If Sandor shared these fears, she did not know, but it seemed part and parcel to what kept him awake during the dark hours of the night.

By day, they had shut the world out, or perhaps they had created a world of their own. All she saw was him, and he in turn looked at her as if she hung the moon in the sky and the stars themselves did her bidding. It was a silent sort of veneration, and it passed wordless as ever, but they were forging something unbreakable, unstoppable.  _'It's you and me,'_ he had been saying to her. Yesterday, the day after Mirabelle's funeral, they had awoken, limbs entangled and bodies still pressed together. She had asked what needed to be done for the day, what business he needed to take care of.  _'Nothing. It's you and me,'_ he had replied. She understood the contextual meaning, but it was the subtext that lay comfortably between them. She understood and so did he.

The words were repeated, unknowingly it would seem, when they shared meals together and found ways to pass the time.  _'It's you and me.'_ She meant to ask about his new found mantra over their supper spent picnicking outside as the sun bled out in brilliant colors against the horizon. He said the words as if he didn't believe it himself, or perhaps it was the only truth he now knew. It was him and her. Maybe that's all that was meant by it. Him and her, left alone by the others who would stare curiously as they walked hand-in-hand through the corridors and down the stairs, outside and back up the stairs when they retreated to bed. He was her constant companion, and she was his. She decided then that that was what he meant. It was him, and it was her - inseparable.

Even now, Sansa had Sandor's hand in her own, her palm resting against the back of his hand as she traced her fingers over the deeply etched lines she found on his palm. With his other arm wrapped securely around her middle, she felt him pressing kisses to her temple and down her cheek.

"What do you see?" he asked her, his voice gruff from lack of sleep.

"You want me to read your palm?" Sansa inquired on something of a coo, relishing in his kisses as she settled back against him and burrowed into his warmth.

"Do you know how?" he chuckled.

"Hmm," Sansa hummed as she continued tracing the lines along the palm of his right hand. "My grandma knew how. She taught me the basics, although I've forgotten a lot of it."

Sandor was silent as he rested his chin on the top of her head and waited, intrigued, for Sansa to continue.

"This is your fate line," Sansa informed quietly as she followed the line running up the middle of his palm. "Breaks in the line mean misfortune."

"And do you see any?" Sandor pressed with faint amusement in his voice.

"Yes," Sansa answered truthfully. His fate line intersected his head line and ended at the heart line.

 _Emotional ruin._  It was silly, really, and Sansa had paid her grandmother, dear as she was, little mind during her lessons of occult practices. Similarly, it would seem Sandor would treat this activity as a parlor trick - amusing, yes, but ultimately something to be dismissed and forgotten. Regardless, Sansa swallowed down the information gleaned from tracing that particular line and held her tongue as she studied his other lines.

"What else?" Sandor ventured with curiosity.

"The affection lines," Sansa smiled as she turned his hand to the side, studying the space below his pinky. She felt Sandor shift behind her so that his cheek now rested against the side of her head.

"What are those?"

"They tell you how many loves you'll have in your life, the duration, if it will be a happy union. That sort of thing."

Sansa could feel Sandor nodding his head before stilling.

"I want to see yours too. We might as well compare."

His words were matter-of-factly stated, and they elicited an exhale of laughter from Sansa as she held her right hand next to his. She already knew her affection lines, or rather,  _line._  She had but one. On the heels of learning the misfortune of the moon in her seventh house, Sansa had memorized that single line, doting on it for some time before ultimately forgetting such nonsense. Now, there was resuscitated curiosity, and it was the same curiosity she felt easing its way from Sandor as he waited for further instruction.

"This is your heart line," she spoke, running her finger along the top line of his palm as it wrapped slightly around to the side of his hand. "Moving up, you should have lines between here and the bottom of your pinky."

Sandor held her hand steady as he studied it quietly for a few moments.

"One," he finally spoke. "You have one."

Sansa nodded her head, the corners of her mouth upturned in a smile. "You have one as well," she concurred softly.

"The closer the line is to your pinky, the older you are when you have this relationship," she continued on.

Her line was symmetrically in the middle between her heart line and the bottom of her pinky, and Sandor puzzled that out soon enough. By comparison, his was closer to the bottom of his pinky. Neither stated the obvious: that their affection lines seemed to correlate with their current age. It seemed it did not need to be spoken, but by the way he held her tighter against him, the understanding was mutual.

"Neither of ours are broken, and they're long," Sansa commented as she shifted her eyes between both of their hands. "A happy relationship. A long union."

Sandor nodded his approval, resting his chin on her shoulder now as he kissed her cheek and sighed.

"The end of yours points down though," Sandor noted with curiosity as he lightly traced his finger along the small line of her hand. "Mine goes straight across. What does that mean?"

 _'Love_ _will come with much difficulty for you, Sansa; much tragedy too…'_

Much as her astrological reading had ended in tears, so too had the palm reading her grandmother had once given her. It seemed the cosmos were intent to teach her lessons of love through bitter struggle and pained strife.  _'We correct the missteps of our previous life in this one.'_ That had been the consolation given, although the balm of her grandmother's words was a temporary comfort. Many nights Sansa had lain awake studying her affection line while damning her moon for residing in the house of seven before ultimately deciding that it was all just silly superstitions.

"My partner will die before me," Sansa replied truthfully, trying to stave off the somberness now etching her words.

"And the cross at the end of it?" Sandor continued inquisitively. Sansa stilled in his arms. She knew he would notice. It was deeper than the affection line itself and seemed to bluntly intersect it, as if cutting the affection line in two.

"My partner dies in an accident. An untimely death." She could not hide the fear in her voice. It seemed to tickle the back of her throat and beckon her words to come quivering from her lips.

"Do you believe in this shit?" Sandor scoffed with a snort, unfazed by the information.

Drawing in a breath, Sansa paused before answering, something that did not go unnoticed by Sandor as he leaned forward and around her so that he could study her face.

"No," she finally answered with a small shake of her head and a wan smile. "Our fate can be changed by the choices we make. We have a destiny, yes, but we choose how our life plays out."

 _Silly superstitions,_ she reminded herself. Staring down at Sandor's hand now resting in her lap, Sansa wondered why she was having difficulties convincing herself that palms and moons made no matter in the course of her own fate. If her destiny could play out any which way she chose, then lines on her hand and an orb in the sky should have no bearing whatsoever.

"Do you believe in it?" she asked Sandor, although she imagined she already knew his answer. He was not the type of man to put stock into religion or even spirituality. Only now, Sansa struggled to place what exactly it was that he believed in.

"Our fate doesn't belong to gods or some entity in the sky," he began after a moment as he interlaced their fingers. "It belongs to us," he whispered in her ear, softly squeezing her hand and kissing her cheek.

 _It's you and me._ Perhaps that was what he believed in, and in saying those words, it was a prayer. Not to gods or angels, but to her and to him because prayers were only manifestations of our hopes. His hope was them, her and him, bound together and fashioned for one another.

"I have my meeting to go to soon," he offered with a sigh as he stretched his arms high above his head, popping his back as he did so.

"We have to get up, don't we?" Sansa groaned as she swiveled towards him, burying her face in his chest and breathing him in while her hands fisted the fabric of his shirt.  _If only we could stay like this…_

"I have to," Sandor replied regretfully. "But you, little bird, can stay in bed for however long you want."

"I'm on kitchen duty for today," Sansa informed, sitting up and pressing a kiss to Sandor's lips. She had told the Italian mothers she would help with the preparation of tonight's meal as more mouths needing to be fed lingered at the Moriarti mansion in the days after Mirabelle's funeral.

"That's right. The ladies need their cannoli queen back in action," Sandor teased as his mouth twitched into a grin.

Exhaling a small giggle, Sansa swatted his arm and watched as he extracted himself from the bed, stretching as he went. She settled back onto the pillows with a small sigh, tucking the blanket up under her arms and crossing them tightly over her chest. With his back turned towards her, Sandor pulled off his shirt, tossing it aside to the club chair in the corner of the room which had a growing collection of various articles of their clothing.

As he settled in front of his dresser drawer, pulling out the clothes he would wear for the day, Sansa let her eyes fall over the bare expanse of his back. She marveled at the broadness of his shoulders, how the heavy, sculpted muscles of his arms rippled beneath his skin with each movement he made, and the way his boxers hung low on his hips, accentuating the tapered cut of his abs.

Shifting his gaze towards the mirror to the left of him, Sandor must have caught the reflection of her openly leering at him. Sansa felt the heat hit her cheeks as she lowered her eyes, but not before she saw him staring back at her through the mirror, a devilish smile playing on his lips.

Without a word, he stepped into the bathroom, leaving the door cracked behind him. Sansa heard the shower turn on, and a few moments later, one arm appeared through the crack in the door as Sandor tossed his boxers towards the bed. Rolling her eyes with a giggle, Sansa felt her own mischievous smile bloom across her mouth. She waited a few moments before slipping from the bed and tiptoeing towards the bathroom, removing her shirt and underwear along the way. Inside, Sansa could feel the humid warmth of steam gathering against her bare skin. She grabbed a towel hanging behind the door and wrapped it around her as she slowly crept towards the shower.

With his eyes shut as water streamed down his face and he ran a bar of soap across his shoulders, Sandor did not see her standing outside the glass door. Sansa felt her heart beating fast within her chest as she took full sight of him. She had seen him in various states of undress, but never fully in the nude. A dull, sweet ache emerged between her legs as she followed the trail of soap suds running down his chest, over his abs, and down even further still to his half-erect manhood.

Sansa gave a small rap of her knuckles against the glass of the shower door. At the sound, Sandor pulled his head out from under the shower head and rubbed the water away from his eyes. Cracking the glass door open, he furrowed his brow at her as he brushed strands of his saturated hair away from the sides of his face.

"Want some company?" she inquired shyly, biting her bottom lip as she stared down at her toes wiggling against the bath rug beneath her feet. When she met his eyes again, he was smirking at her and was now turned fully towards her, unashamed at his nakedness and offering her a full view should she take it. And she did take it - swallowing hard as she let her eyes run up his heavily muscled form standing before her.

"There's a strict dress code in this shower," he offered with feigned regret spoken through a grin. "No towels allowed."

Disguising her smile with a pout, Sansa took a step backwards as if in retreat. Locking eyes with Sandor, she lifted her arms, letting the towel fall to the floor. With the sound of the water splashing against the tile of the shower and rushing down the drain, she couldn't quite tell, but could have sworn she heard a low, rumbling groan come from him. His smile had faded, and he feasted on the sight of her, his eyes filling with an insatiable lust as they lingered at the fullness of her breasts and the neatly trimmed patch of hair running the length of her slit.

"Get in here," he finally spoke on something like a moan as he leaned out of the shower and snatched her up.

No sooner had she obliged then she was being pressed against the wall of the shower, her mouth claimed by his as his tongue ran circles against hers and his hands trailed up and down her sides. She followed his lead, tentatively letting her palms rest against his hips before her fingers cupped his backside.

"I hope you didn't come in here to wash your hair," he rasped against her lips before tipping his head and taking one of her nipples into his mouth. The sensation of warm water running down her side and his tongue brushing across her nipple beckoned Sansa's eyes to flutter closed and a moan to escape her lips. Instinctively, she arched into him, pressing her body against his and feeling his manhood flush against her belly.

Reaching down between them, Sansa wrapped her hand around Sandor's hardened cock, smoothing her palm over its length and delighting in the way his body tensed in response and his ministrations to her breasts increased in their urgency. When she was certain the sensations running through her body could not get any more heavenly, Sansa felt Sandor's hand run up the inside of her thigh before his fingers gently traced her slit. He had pulled away from her breast now and was studying her face with desire flashing wild in his eyes, his mouth agape with deep groans as she continued stroking him in steady rhythm.

In return, he teased her clit with a soft touch, smiling as she began to pant with each pass of his fingers and unraveled into incoherent whimpers. She wanted more, and he knew it. She wanted to feel him inside of her, wanted him to reach all those divine places she knew he could. More than that, she wanted to do the same for him. She wanted to learn all the ways to make him come undone at the seams.

Sandor dipped a finger into her as his thumb continued stroking her clit. Shaking his head, he exhaled a laugh through his own panting breaths before pressing his lips against her ear.

"I love how you're always so fucking wet for me," he whispered on a groan before administering slow kisses up her neck and ultimately claiming her mouth once more.

Sansa sighed into the kiss, deepening it and pressing her body against him as best she could given the awkward angle of the shower and the fact that water was finding its way up her nose. She giggled at the sensation between her moans of pleasure. At this, Sandor broke the kiss and cocked an eyebrow at her.

"What is it?" he asked with curiosity.

"The water is getting up my nose," Sansa replied with a shake of her head and a lingering laugh.

Upon hearing this, and without warning, Sandor shut the water off and pushed the shower door open, releasing the steam and allowing the cool air to meander its way in.

"We'll take this in the next room then." With that, he led her from the shower, taking her hand and not stopping to towel off. Instead, he headed for the bed, lifting her up by the waist and unceremoniously dropping her down on the mattress.

He paused before settling on top of her, his eyes running up the length of her legs, the curve of her hips and waist, the way her breasts rose and fell in time with her breathing, her nipples hardened with arousal. In the past, Sansa would blush beneath his stare, demurely averting her gaze, although she thoroughly enjoyed the way he seemed to devour her with his eyes.

Although her skin was flushed with a burning heat, Sansa did not look away. Instead, she matched his eyes now as she bit her bottom lip and slowly let her knees fall open, spreading her legs so as to offer him a view.

He murmured a slew of expletives, seemingly to himself, as he shook his head and ran a hand over his face before slowly easing himself on top of her.

Draping her legs around his hips and her arms around his neck, Sansa pulled him down against her, running her tongue across his bottom lip and giving a tiny nibble. He responded with a satisfied moan as he slowly rocked his hips into her, letting the length of his cock slide against her clit.

In slow movements, his lips moved down her neck, across her collar bone, lingered at each of her breasts as he sucked at each nipple in turn. He did not linger long and instead continued further down her body until he hovered between her legs. She could feel the warmth of his breath against the wetness pooled there.

He lingered momentarily, and when Sansa lifted her head to see the cause of his hesitation, she found him staring back at her, a devilish smile across his lips and his eyes heavy with desire. Without breaking his stare, Sandor moved his mouth to the top of her knee, slowly running his tongue down the inside of her thigh before reaching her slit and tracing over it ever so slightly. He pulled away and repeated the process on the other side, his tongue trailing down her other thigh.

When Sansa was certain she was going to come undone at the anticipation alone and gave a whimpering protest, Sandor's tongue delved between her folds as he began running delicate circles across her clit and slipped one long finger into her. With her head falling back against the pillow and her eyes fluttering closed, Sansa gave a shuddering sigh. The last time he had done this, it felt incomplete; her body responded as it should, but her heart had still been aching. Now, the two were synchronously responding. Her body was ablaze with heat, and her heart was soaring at his touch.

Letting herself go, Sansa buried her fingers in the dripping locks of Sandor's hair and gently rolled her hips up to meet his lips. He responded with a fervor, reaching up and cupping one of her breasts while his tongue now eagerly lapped at her opening and his thumb brushed firm, rhythmic circles at her clit. He followed the sounds pouring from her lips, zeroing in on what she liked and continuing with it until she began to tremble beneath him. She didn't care anymore how loud her cries of pleasure were becoming. Instead, she surrendered to the sensation, panting and writhing as she felt herself unravel and as a final release of euphoria was unleashed within her. Her body released its tension, her limbs went limp, and a final sigh escaped her lips.

Sandor's movements slowed to a gradual stop, but not before he gave one more gentle lick and a delicate kiss between her legs, sending a shockwave of tingles through her body. He eased himself on top of her, licking his lips, which were covered in a sheen of her wetness. Sansa smiled up at him, sated and abuzz with the sensations that had rocked through her. As Sandor pressed soft kisses to her lips, Sansa could feel his erection pressed between them. She traced her fingers down the smooth expanse of his chest and over the tautness of his stomach until finally reaching the tip of his manhood, which was pearled with wetness.

"I want…" she whispered against his lips, stopping as she traced her fingers down the length of his cock. He shuddered on top of her, breathing harder against her touch.

"Say it. Tell me what you what," he murmured before deepening the kiss, his tongue easily gaining entrance in her mouth as she stroked him tentatively.

"I want to…" Sansa began, although quickly becoming scandalized. "I want to do the same for you," she finally managed between kisses.

"I want to hear you say it," Sandor urged, his hands running over the silhouette of her curves, starting at her hip and ending at the swell of her breast.

Pulling away from her slightly as he broke the kiss, Sandor stared down at her, his eyes raking over her bare body.

Sansa's cheeks were aflame, and her chest was heaving now with a different sort of anticipation. She wanted to give him pleasure, to make him moan and shudder and gasp for breaths just as he had done for her. She bit her lip before releasing it into a curious smile as her eyes flickered towards her fingers still working up and down his shaft.

Slowly, she sat up, her hand pressing against his chest as she gently pushed him up. His mouth curled into a grin as she urged him to lay down once more, this time on his back. His smile dissolved away into a countenance of pure lust as she lifted herself to straddle him, guiding his hands to her breasts as he stared up at her in wonderment.

Leaning forward, she softly licked his lips, eliciting a guttural groan to originate from the back of his throat and his hands to grip the sides of her hips.

"I want…" she began again, tracing her lips down his neck and giving little nips and nibbles as she went.

"To…" Shifting further down him, Sansa placed lingering kisses down his chest, which was rising to meet her lips and falling away as he audibly exhaled his breaths.

"Suck…" She settled between his legs, her lips ghosting across the head of his cock as she spoke. Emboldened by the response she was getting from him, Sansa matched his eyes. Biting his lip, Sandor was gathering up the damp tresses of her hair. With his other hand, he traced the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip, letting out a moan at the sight of her as he bucked his hips slightly to urge her on. When he moved his hand from her lip and settled it behind his head, Sansa slowly took him in her mouth, her tongue running smooth circles around the head of his cock. Her actions were met with a quietly exhaled expletive.

Wrapping one hand around the base of his manhood, Sansa eased her lips further down, taking more of him into her mouth as she gave a tentative suck. In the periphery of her vision, she could see Sandor's legs tensing, bending at the knee as he panted short breaths. Despite the newness of it all, Sansa found herself exhilarated, listening raptly to the sounds coming from Sandor and the way his body was responding to her.

Finding her rhythm, she took as much of him into her mouth as she could and steadily stroked the length of him that she couldn't. With each pass of her tongue, she could feel him shuddering beneath her. More expletives poured from his lips, interspersed with ragged gasps for breaths and deep, resounding moans.

Sansa felt Sandor's hand wrap around hers, pressing her fingers more firmly against his manhood and increasing the speed of her rhythm. Diligently, she followed his lead, realizing now there was something deeply erotic about having him instruct her in this way.

"Look at me," he murmured on a thin exhale, the rhythm of his breathing erratic as his body writhed, seemingly uncontrolled, beneath her.

As she worked her mouth up and down his shaft, Sansa lifted her gaze up to him through her eyelashes. She was met with a lustful stare, his eyes eagerly drinking in the sight of her as his chest heaved.

"Fuck, Sansa. Just like that," he growled, watching her intently as she continued her movements. She could see his face becoming flushed, his eyes rolling closed, his mouth dangling open, although no sounds came except those of his panting breaths. Moments later, she saw him throw his head back against the pillow as the muscles in his body tensed in unison. He seemed to roar his release and moved to push her away as he came. Resisting, Sansa stilled his movements and continued her ministrations as he climaxed with a jolting shudder.

Much like her, he had become limp, his legs trembling slightly as she sat up and swallowed down his release. Sandor ran his hands over his face, sighing into his palms as he tried to regain a normal rhythm of breathing. Climbing out from between his legs, Sansa settled by his side, mindlessly twirling a strand of damp hair around her finger as she lay down beside him. Sandor pulled his hands away from his face as he felt the mattress depress next to him. He shifted his eyes to her, which were now heavy with contentment and sleepiness.

"Where the fuck did you learn to give head like that?" he queried with a low chuckle as he pulled her closer against him.

Sansa felt a smile form on her lips as she shrugged her shoulders. It was a rhetorical question, she knew. He was well aware of her inexperience in these sorts of things, so she took his words, crude as they were, as a compliment of sorts.

Turning to his side, Sandor gathered Sansa in his arms, pressing soft kisses to her shoulder, neck, and finally her lips.

"You're so fucking sexy," she heard him say on a sigh before closing his eyes.

He would fall asleep, she knew. Afterall, she understood the tempo of his breaths, the thrum of his heart. Both were quieting now, receding to a pace which told her all she needed to know. For a time, he was comforted, and so was she. She rested her head on his chest, and he in turn draped his arm over the small of her waist before smoothing his palm up and down her back. They stayed like this for many quiet moments, neither falling into slumber but rather enjoying the warmth of their bodies pressed against one another.

Eventually, Sansa felt as Sandor pressed a kiss to her cheek and sat up before crawling from the bed with a heavy sigh.

"How long will your meeting take?" she inquired, propping herself up on one elbow as Sandor pulled on a pair of boxers.

He shrugged his shoulders, pursing his lips slightly in thought.

"Not long, I don't think," he informed before pulling a plain white T-shirt over his head. "It's just me and Zulu."

Sansa's body was warm, still flushed, but her blood ran like ice through her veins. Her mind cried out for a mad dash to be made, a way of stalling this meeting so that she might reconcile the truths she still held on to. It was futile, she knew. She had only sparingly seen Zulu over the past few days, and by the silver hands of the clock on the wall, she knew Sandor was pushing his limit on time before this meeting.

"Zulu?" she replied with as much disinterest as she could muster. The boy's name still came on a sharp, dry breath.

"Yeah. I told you, right?"

Sansa stared down at her hands gathering in her lap as she bit her lip. In the periphery of her vision, Sandor continued dressing, seemingly unaware of the turmoil playing out over her countenance. He had mentioned a meeting, and Sansa envisioned a table of men, serious and brooding, gathered to discuss business. What she had not envisioned was a private rendezvous between Sandor and Zulu.

"I must have forgotten," she finally spoke, pulling the blankets up over her chest as she suddenly grew cold.

"I meet with him over lunch," Sandor relayed as he tied his shoe, focusing on his fingers' work and not noticing the way Sansa had now paled. "Depending on what he has for me, I may need to speak with some of my other men."

Lifting himself to his feet, he approached the side of the bed, leaning forward with his hands pressed to the mattress on either side of where Sansa was sitting, knees pulled to her chest.

"I'm all yours by dinner time." With that, he pressed a kiss to her lips and then to her forehead before retreating from the room.

She listened to his heavy footfalls down the hall, stilling her breaths as he receded away, and when he was gone, the room grew darker and colder too. It was not his absence which suddenly muted the colors of her existence, shattering the vibrant visage of the world she and him had existed in. Rather, it was the presence of something else; something distant and unknowable gathering beyond the veil of that which was tangible. Sandor did not believe in forces which irrevocably pushed and pulled on the course of one's fate, and she had led him to believe she did not believe in it either. To know herself was to know that while she disregarded lines of affection and moons in seven, she believed in what she could feel. She understood that whispers of the cosmos came as ripples in the water, prospects and omens of events already set in motion.

With a sickening awareness, one that could not be ignored and dismissed as an occult parlor trick, Sansa felt that universal ebb and flow. It warned of tragedy and encompassed a larger purpose than that of correcting karmic missteps of a past life. She did not know how it would play out or the particulars of its features. All she knew for certain was that it was heavy, it was strong, and it was coming.

* * *

In the small corner of the Moriarti mansion that he claimed as his own, Zulu shuffled through the papers he had gathered for his meeting. They were clipped together in orderly stacks before being tucked away into a folder for safe keeping. He could recall the information easily enough but understood that an organized stack of documents bespoke the time spent doing his duty. It hadn't taken him long, really. The information was out there. It was just a matter of hacking into databases and sifting through it all to find what he was looking for.

Bronn had briefed him on the particulars: he needed to gather whatever he could on the hotspots and distribution network of the Caballero cartel and prepare for a private meeting with Sandor Clegane. If Bronn had been privy to all the reasons Clegane wanted to meet with him personally, the man hadn't let on. Instead, he seemed distracted and listless, hardly present in his own body as he relayed the Hound's request the day after Mirabelle's funeral. Zulu had swallowed his uneasiness then, drinking it down despite his discomfort and remaining poised as best he could. His interactions with Clegane had been few and far between for the majority of his time spent in the Moriarti underworld, save for the last few weeks in which he seemed to have drawn attention to himself.  _Is this not what you wanted?_

There was a time where he had, indeed, wanted to be recognized for his efforts. He had usually pushed it aside as a selfish want and chided himself for chasing down a pipe dream. It seemed he had been singled out, though, plucked from the pack of other made men who were constantly chomping at the bit to prove their merit. It had started with Alberto requesting his assistance in monitoring the Stark girl, and it ended here - a private meeting with the boss of the organization. Zulu couldn't help but wonder if the events had come full circle with Sansa Stark being the common denominator in all of this.

With a sense of duty having been, quite literally, pounded into him from a young age, Zulu took his tasks seriously, regardless of their nature. Whether it was stocking the dusty shelves at his family's neighborhood grocery store at the age of twelve or keeping a watchful eye on the district attorney's daughter despite his initial misgivings, Zulu did his duty - quietly and without complaint. And now, his hard work and diligence had seemed to pay off; he knew if he stuck his nose to the grindstone long enough, someone was sure to notice him eventually. At least, that's what he had told himself, and it seemed to be a default by which he operated, regardless. He did not make waves; he did not cause problems; he did not break rules. There had been just one momentary faltering from this personal code of ethics.

It had been a culmination of turbulent desires, a complexity of motivations that Zulu himself couldn't quite piece together. His mother had told him he had a bleeding heart, an ability to absorb the pain that others felt and to share the burden of their sorrow. That was many years ago, and it had taken him some time to understand what she truly meant by her words. His empathy was a double-edged sword, to be sure, and at times difficult to manage given the callousness that was so often required in order to do his duty as a made man. It had been empathy that initially drew him to the Stark girl, a fragility he sought to protect. He dare not call her weak, per se, but the strength she seemed to don in recent days seemed feigned to him and put on like a masquerade.

A companionship had sprouted from the seed of empathy. Sansa was an escape and a distraction. He imagined he functioned much the same for her. When an attraction began to flourish, he had tried to stymie it, to poison it at its root. When she had come bounding down the stairs one night, her underwear and a bottle of the Hound's whiskey in hand, he had been angry: at her for being so pathetically naive, at Clegane for shirking his own duties to drown himself in booze and let the world crumble around him, at himself for being so foolish as to think he could compete with the man.

To look back on it now, Zulu realized, in that singular moment of time, he stopped fearing Sandor Clegane. The Hound had been a false idol to him, an entity to revere. Sansa had humanized the man, lured him from some unreachable place to exist amongst mere mortals. And now Zulu saw him as such, and fear had dissolved away to be replaced by what he could only describe as pity. He pitied Clegane, but mostly he pitied all the unenlightened souls who blindly followed the man towards an uncertain future.

His volunteering to take Sansa back to Moriarti's in the wake of what transpired at the funeral home had been contrived. Zulu knew what he would do, and he knew what he would offer Sansa that night. It wasn't empathy, companionship, or desire which motivated him. Even now, he couldn't quite place what drove him to take what wasn't his, to taste it and to want it as his own. It was reckless, but he hadn't cared.

He was no longer afraid: not of Clegane and not of her. He sought to rebel against his duty, to reveal it for the farce that it was. After all, he was beginning to see things more clearly, and what he saw was a charade. It was a charade of men who had all bought into a culture of fear – fear they hoped to inspire in others and fear of a man who was, himself, the biggest fraud of them all. And the magnum opus of this fool's farce was the revived relationship between Clegane and Sansa. Zulu had seen Sansa and Clegane a handful of times the past few days, hand-in-hand and looking quite content to resume their tryst despite all the sickening bullshit that had transpired between them.

_They deserve each other and what they get._

The bitterness of his thoughts surprised Zulu. He found that the envy he had anticipated towards Clegane was replaced with disgust, for both him and for the girl as well.

The time Sansa had spent with a mob boss seemed to have imparted little clarity or soundness of judgment on her. Instead, she had naively fallen for whatever Clegane had fed to her. He knew the man better than anyone probably realized. While the other young made men spent their time impressing capos or chasing tail, Zulu had quietly observed those around him, Clegane in particular. Zulu had once respected him as a leader, admired him as a warrior, and envied him as a man. However, he knew the dark side that existed in Clegane: his penchant for extreme violence, the fickleness of his rage, the volatility of his temper. He knew that Clegane had hurt Sansa before and would do it again. Whatever promises of change that may have been made were as good as worthless.

Zulu couldn't help but exhale a bitter laugh, one which originated from the souring pit of his stomach as he gathered up his folder full of papers and headed towards the back patio.

Their meeting was to take place outside. The days of cloud cover, storms, and unseasonable cold snaps were gone, and the sun had returned to bake the earth. As he stepped out onto the back patio, Zulu felt the warmth against his bare arms. Nausea took hold, and he swayed slightly as if the gentle breeze working across the patio might whisk him away.  _If only I were so lucky,_ he thought with an uneasy shake of the head.

He found Clegane seated at a small, wrought iron table tucked against the stucco side of the mansion, which overlooked the valley below. The man dwarfed the chair he was sitting in, his elbows perched against the armrests, his fingers steepled in front of him as he stared down at a notepad scribbled with writing.

The table had been set with an assortment of lunchtime fare: sandwiches, a large bowl of fruit salad, deviled eggs. Confused, Zulu slowed his pace as he approached the table, unaware that this meeting would be taking place over a meal. He felt his appetite flee him and his stomach twist into knots.

Clegane did not seem to notice his presence at first as he shoved a deviled egg into his mouth and stared off towards the desert valley. When his eyes shifted to Zulu, he gave a half smile and wordlessly motioned his head towards the chair opposite him. Zulu lowered himself in to sit, a fine sheen of sweat emerging against his palms as Clegane studied him with watchful eyes. Zulu scooted the chair closer to the table and gently placed his folder of papers in front of him.

Clegane sipped from a bottle of water before clearing his throat and eying the folder.

"You spoke with Bronn," he began as he eased into his seat, letting his back rest against the chair and his arms fall against the armrests.

"I did," Zulu confirmed with a slight nod. "He said you requested all known locations in Nevada and Southern California where the Caballero are active, as well as their distribution network."

"What do you have on them?" Clegane pressed as he spooned fruit salad onto a plate. "Help yourself. There's plenty here," he added casually with a motioning of his head towards the spread of food.

Zulu felt his stomach burn as he tried to place the uneasiness he felt. Clegane's temperament ranged from violently flying off the handle to brooding in an agitated and heavy silence. Never before had he seen the man in this state of conviviality and calm. If the Hound meant to set Zulu at ease, he was missing the mark. If anything, the sudden change in his usual disposition was disconcerting.

Ignoring Clegane's cajoling for him to eat, Zulu flipped open his folder and pulled out a map of the southwestern portion of the United States where various cities had been circled. Turning the map so it faced Clegane, Zulu pulled a pen from his pocket to illustrate various features of his findings.

"They're most active in the southern portion of the border states, so San Diego, Tuscon, Phoenix, Las Cruces. These are the main points of their distribution network. Their stuff comes up from Columbia to Mexico City, where it's divvied between the major crews who push it through the border at various points. They've managed to break into Reno, Los Angeles, and Miami, but that's iffy because they're stepping on Ybarra territory in those places."

When he finished, Zulu drew in a breath, lifting his eyes to Clegane, who was scrutinizing the map. Silence wore on as Clegane did this, narrowing his gaze and furrowing his brow in thought.

After a few excruciatingly long minutes, Clegane eased back in his seat and crossed his arms about his chest as he leveled a stare onto Zulu.

"What are your thoughts on it?" he finally broke in, his face impassible and his eyes hardly wavering from their place.

Zulu wasn't quite sure he heard him correctly at first. Never before had Clegane asked for his opinion. Never before had Clegane shown this much interest in him,  _period._ The man was stubborn and bullheaded. If he valued anyone's opinion above his own, Zulu imagined it would be Alberto's, but even that was questionable. Many times, it seemed Sandor went against the advice of his consigliere.

"I'm not sure what you mean." Zulu did not know what else to say or what Clegane wanted from him.

"There's not a lot to read into, Zulu," Clegane spoke through a smirk. He nodded his head towards the map still situated between them before continuing. "I'm asking for your opinion, your thoughts on it. You're a smart kid, and I think you've flown under the radar for a bit too long. If you had to look at this map and tell me which location you think the Caballero would be predominantly operating out of, I want to know where you would pick."

Zulu felt his mouth dangle open momentarily before he pressed his lips together. He half expected for this to be some sort of a set-up. It was a paranoid thought, he knew, but he couldn't wrap his head around any other reason the Hound might be sharing a meal with him, seeking out his opinion, and acknowledging the fact that he had gone unnoticed.  _I don't trust him._ It was a startling realization and one whose origins could be found well before this particular conversation, although he was only now consciously acknowledging it.

"The Caballero aren't shy about wanting to encroach on Ybarra territory," Zulu began as he gathered the stray pieces of his thoughts. "Since Vegas is essentially where the Ybarra cartel operates out of stateside, the Caballero have been hesitant to go full force in there, but they're definitely zeroing in on it. Ybarra have Vegas and Los Angeles under their thumb, which is huge. The Caballero want a piece of that. With backing from the Severelli, I think the Caballero are going to push Vegas hard. And the Ybarra will push back."

When Clegane descended into silence once more and lifted his eyes to the sky in thought, Zulu could feel the sweat accumulating on his brow and his lungs beginning to burn with each breath. This meeting – the fact that it had even been called in the first place – was as perplexing as it was troubling. All this information could have easily passed up the pipeline to Clegane. There was no reason it needed to be relayed by Zulu to Sandor directly.

"The Caballero are going to be in over their heads," Clegane commented on a sardonic chuckle. Something about the man's laugh irritated him. "A street war with a rival cartel and the war we've got cooking up with the Severelli that they're now a part of. There's no way in hell they can handle the blow back with all of this."

Zulu didn't know if he was expected to respond or merely indulge Clegane in his musings. Instead, he remained silent, watching as Clegane picked strawberries out from the bowl of fruit salad.

"Miguel Martinez is getting old," Clegane noted before popping a strawberry into his mouth. "I'm not so sure he has a successor just yet either. His only son was gunned down a few years ago, and from what I've heard, he doesn't fully trust any of the men favored to take over for him."

Zulu already knew this information. Despite the discretion and caution Martinez, the Caballero patriarch, imposed upon the cartel these days, the man had been reckless in his younger years of running the show. The consequences of his recklessness had left him paranoid, for all the good it did.

"You don't think he has the stomach for two street wars," Zulu spoke, his words inflecting such that his statement came questioning from his lips.

"No, I think he can and will stomach it," Clegane corrected. "This situation makes him susceptible to persuasion though," he added after a lengthy silence.

His last statement was not spoken as an afterthought, Zulu knew. Instead, it seemed to weigh heavily in Clegane's mind as he stewed over it between bites of strawberries and chicken salad sandwiches.

"I want information on Martinez by the end of the day," Clegane finally commanded authoritatively and with conviction. "I want to know where he's at  _now._ Not where you think he might be. I'll need a way to contact him too."

The man leveled his gaze across the table, his eyes narrowing at Zulu as if somehow examining him.

"I'll get on that," Zulu avowed quietly as he lowered his head to stare at his lap.

"Good." Clapping his hands together as if to disperse the tension between them, Clegane's mouth twitched into a half-smile, his mood seeming to lighten, although it did little to ease Zulu's nervousness. "I wanted to tell you that I appreciate you looking after Sansa for the past week while I was indisposed."

Despite the heat now seeping into his skin from the sun above, Zulu felt his blood run cold and his mouth go dry. There was no way in hell Sandor meant what he was saying. Zulu was well aware of how possessive the man was over Sansa. He had seen it with his own two eyes the day E.Z. had unwittingly crossed the line by making moves on Sansa within eyesight and earshot of Clegane. Zulu didn't know what transpired after that exchange, but he knew whatever had taken place, it had left E.Z. reeling, although the kid never spoke about it - not even after Vinny urged him to come clean about what happened. The kid had refused, too petrified of the ramifications, although Vinny had taken the kid aside and offered him assurances. Zulu was never entirely certain what Vinny had told E.Z., but whatever it was, it had restored a bit of the kid's confidence and seemed to set his mind at ease.

"It was no problem." The words were a whisper, and now Zulu could feel an insistent tremble work its way through his limbs. He gripped the armrest of the chair to quell the shaking of his hands and steady them so that Clegane could not see.

"You're a good kid, Zulu," Clegane spoke with a smile which tugged across the man's lips and wrinkled the corners of his eyes – a genuine smile if there ever was one.

"Thank you, sir," Zulu managed. As Clegane's eyes scrutinized him with growing concern, Zulu was certain that the man was beginning to notice something was off. If not by sight alone, the uneasiness Zulu was emitting should have been a tell-tale indicator.

Leaning forward in his seat, Clegane began once more as he regarded Zulu with a renewed flush of sincerity and import.

"Part of the reason I wanted to speak with you one-on-one was to talk about your future in this organization." Clegane gave pause before beginning once more, his head cocked to the side as he rested one balled fist under his chin. "Where do you see yourself going? Ten years from now, where do you hope to be?"

Suddenly put on the spot, Zulu knew not what to say. The words dissolved on his tongue, and his thoughts evaporated before fully taking shape.

"I…um…I don't-" he stammered, bewildered and floored at the sudden turn in conversation. "I guess I hadn't thought about it."

That much was true. Through the unfortunate twists and turns of his life, Zulu had somehow wound up involved in the Moriarti organization. It wasn't something he had strived for. And he never strived or expected to be pushed through the ranks; after all, made men with a blood legacy were usually favored for that. However, this was Clegane's organization, and he ran it by his own set of rules. Traditions were being put aside for practicality, and the make-up of the organization was changing under his leadership, for better or for worse.

"Some made men are only meant to be street soldiers," Clegane continued now as he sensed Zulu's sudden bafflement. "That's what they're good at, and it's what they do. And most of them are happy doing it. There are other men, like you and like me, who are cut from a different cloth. They don't come along often, but when they do, they need to be singled out and groomed for a higher ranking position."

Zulu stared down at the table to the folder open in front of him. Before being officially made, he had heard stories of Clegane from some of the other made men: his imposing size, his brooding, unreadable demeanor, the infamy of his temper. He knew well enough to be intimidated when he finally came face to face with Clegane at his initiation ceremony, and he had been. Like all else in his world, Clegane dwarfed the stories told about him. He was a man carved from myth. Zulu's fear of Sandor had been genuine, but so too was his intrigue. He did not want to blindly fear Sandor Clegane. He wanted to understand him, to know him, to one day  _be_ him.

There was admiration to be found in Clegane's unconventionality. He was not groomed from generations past to be a made man. He did not share heritage or even blood with his predecessor. He had been plucked off the streets by Alberto and tossed into the bull pit. He had proven himself time and again, not because he had to or even wanted to, but because it was all he knew how to do - to fight, to survive, to kill. Zulu had seen something of himself in Sandor, an idol to look up to, and finally, someone worth emulating. Some would call it presumptuous, and Zulu would agree, but he had struggled to find his place in the world, to figure out where exactly he fit. Now, he had finally found purpose and place, and Sandor was seeing something of himself in Zulu too, or so it seemed.

He knew Clegane was staring at him, waiting for a response. If Zulu looked at the man now, surely he would know. He would begin to understand Zulu's sudden turmoil, the upheaval that was occurring in real time. Zulu kept his eyes lowered and his mouth shut. From across the table, he could feel a growing sense of agitation coming off of Sandor, who was, undoubtedly, expecting a different response than what he was getting.

"Alright, let's cut the shit, kid," he said finally on an exasperated sigh. "I think you'd make an excellent capo. I think you're smart. I think you're capable. You're honest, you're loyal, you're hardworking. Fuck, there's a reason you got the nickname Zulu."

Zulu closed his eyes and pulled in measured breaths. No longer was he trembling, but instead the weight of what Sandor was offering and asking of him settled at his core, stilling his movements. Other men would have eagerly accepted what had been put on the table, realizing that to deny the boss something of this magnitude would surely be a slap in the man's face.

Zulu understood now. He admired the Hound, but loathed Sandor Clegane and had not yet reconciled the two; for now, those two entities existing in the same man were separating, the former being relinquished so the latter could exist in peace. It was not that Sandor had been revealed to him as a fake, but that Zulu had lost his faith in the myth that was the Hound - the vision of Clegane as an individual who was an unmovable force with convictions that, although askew and convoluted by the standards of morality, were unwavering nonetheless.

Only now did he come to understand that he had hung his hopes and stocked his heart with faith in that myth. Just like Sansa, he had eagerly consumed an ideology that was baseless.

"Obviously, this would be something you work towards for quite some time before you take the position," Sandor continued after Zulu's reticence wore on. The man shifted in his chair from side to side with what appeared to be discomfort. "However, I want to start putting you in charge more and see how you do. It'd be a trial by fire sort of deal. I want to see more of the stuff you're made of."

Freeing his hands from the armrests of his chair, Zulu rubbed his face, sighing deeply into his palms.  _Why me? Why, of all people, are you offering this to me? Why couldn't I have just disappeared into the background like always?_

When Zulu pulled his hands away from his face, his eyes squarely met Sandor's gaze, which was clouded with concern and confusion.

"What's the matter?" the man chuckled, almost nervously and obviously perplexed. "You look like you're about to cry."

Although Zulu did not feel the stinging of tears, he knew the horrified look that had settled on his face. He could feel his brow knitting together, his mouth contorting into a pained expression, conflict pouring forth from him eyes.

"Zulu, what's going on?" Sandor pressed with urgency, leaning forward now in his seat and imploring Zulu with an unfaltering intensity.

He could not say for certain why he felt the need to confess unspoken truths to Sandor Clegane. Perhaps he was just as naïve and hopelessly misguided as the Stark girl. Or perhaps his affliction was worse; for this wasn't naïveté which solidified his resolve to unmask his truths to the man he had in turn feared, admired, and envied.

_I should know better._

Zulu did know better, and perhaps that was just it.

He knew Sansa would tell Sandor the truth eventually. It was only a matter of time. He knew that the truth would come like honey from Sansa's lips, and Sandor would devour it as such, but he was a smart man. He would understand that it wasn't a mere kiss that Zulu had sought to steal that night. Zulu had wanted to steal Sansa away too, to take something that wasn't his, to gain an identity beyond his duty. And that had been his own madness; he knew that now. Sansa did not seem to understand that and would sweetly offer up her confession, not comprehending the severity of what had transpired. Sandor would understand. He would read between the lines and see all that Sansa couldn't. The truth would bleed through her sweet words.

It was better this way; better for it to come from Zulu himself than from the girl who could do no wrong in Sandor's eyes, the girl who was unfurling the boss of the Moriarti inside out, the girl who had weakened him. It was madness, but madness seemed to be the order of the day.

"There's something I need to tell you."

When he finally loosed the words from his tongue, they came out slow and deliberate. With his heart beating loudly in his own ears, the sound of his own voice seemed muffled and distant, as if he had slipped outside of himself to watch from somewhere up above.

"I'm listening," Sandor responded on a deep rumble.

Zulu did not know where to begin, how to trace his steps backwards to the origins of this situation. After giving pause, he realized it wouldn't quite matter where this story began because the ending was the same, regardless.

"I know you don't know a lot about my back story," he started, eyes down turned as he mindlessly picked at his fingernails. "I think Bronn knows more than anyone. I don't have family - not any family I talk to or have ties with. I don't have the lineage a lot of the other younger made men have. I've sort of felt like a black sheep for a long time-"

Zulu was interrupted with an exhaled laugh, something between a chuckle and a sigh.

"I don't have the lineage either, but here I am," Sandor broke in on an almost gentle tone as he offered reassurances. His index finger prodded the table to emphasize each of his words. "I got here by proving what I was worth, just like I know you'll do. So, if that's what's got you upset-"

"That's not what it is," Zulu interrupted, his words adamant although strained. He ran his hand over his face once more and now felt the stinging of tears in his eyes.

"Alright, calm down," he heard Sandor speak calmly from across the table. "Whatever has you so worked up right now, we can talk about it. You can tell me what it is, Zulu."

Zulu's hands had begun to tremble and so too did his voice when he finally spoke on a quivering breath.

"After what happened with Mirabelle and Thomas, Alberto asked me to keep an eye on Sansa, to make sure she didn't get lost in the shuffle. I didn't want to at first because I knew you and her were close. I didn't think I could say no to Alberto, though, so I agreed."

Giving pause, Zulu lifted his gaze to Sandor, who had grown eerily still and was staring at Zulu now with eyes that bore straight through him. "I got to know her, and I started to feel for her situation. It started to seem similar to mine. I guess I could empathize with a lot of it. As I spent time with her, I got to know her better…"

Zulu had let his words trail off. It was cowardice, he knew. Sandor, too, had begun to tremble now, the muscles of his bare arms taut with tension.

"Where the fuck are you going with this?" Sandor seethed as his jaw set firmly. His eyebrows were downturned in a scowl as he glared across the table.

"I…I don't know," Zulu stammered, his fear of the man having been unearthed once more. "I started to get feelings for her. It wasn't anything major, and I didn't expect it to go anywhere. I just-"

He could down play it all he wanted to. It wouldn't matter to Sandor. Zulu could see the man's chest heaving in the periphery of his downturned vision. He had expected the Hound to come careening over the table by now, to throttle him in blind wrath. Instead, the man continued with the rhythmic pattern of measured breathing. When he finally spoke, he did so with his eyes softly shut as he shook his head, his voice unexpectedly calm.

"It's not going anywhere, Emory. Whatever you think you had with her is done and over with. You don't need to be around her anymore."

"I know that. And I haven't been around her," Zulu assured on a murmur, startled by the sound of his given name coming from Sandor. When Sandor opened his eyes once more, Zulu averted his gaze, gnawing on his bottom lip as he wrung his hands together.

"There's something you're not telling me," he heard Sandor rasp. When he lifted his eyes to the man, Zulu could see that while outwardly calm for now, Sandor appeared to be staring through him once more. He could not say for certain how Sandor knew. Perhaps Zulu's body had betrayed him, subtle cues had been given from across the table, or perhaps this was a demonstration of the keen perceptiveness Sandor possessed. Either way, the understanding was implicit and unspoken.

"Tell me what else went on between you and her." Leaning forward, Sandor's chest pressed against the edge of the table as he lowered his voice to something of a growl, and the glower with which he was considering Zulu burned with intensity.

"The other night when I brought her back here, after Mirabelle's visitation, I escorted her to her room. We kissed."

 _I kissed her. She did not kiss me._ He had meant to say that as well, but stopped himself short, although he could not say why. It was deviant and dangerous. He had now given Sansa equal ownership of what had transpired, as if that might lift some of the burden off of himself.

Zulu watched as Sandor pulled in deep breaths, his eyes darting like mad across the table in tumultuous thought as he ran a hand over his face and through the long strands of his hair. When Sandor's eyes settled onto Zulu once more, the pained look of betrayal was clear to see. It seemed to have crippled the anger brewing within him and was bringing the man to his proverbial knees with evident hurt.

"I asked you to take care of her, to bring her back here safely while I dealt with a shit storm. You repay me by making a move on her. What else happened?"

Sandor's nostrils flared with each audible intake of breath, his hands curled around the armrest of his chair so tightly that his knuckles had paled to a shade of white.

"Nothing. That was it," Zulu lied. There was more to this, and just as he had predicted, Sandor knew. He read between the lines as astutely as ever.

"That's bullshit," the man roared as he slammed his fist against the table, sending the bowl of fruit salad to go crashing against the ground and shattering upon impact. "You're lying to me! You didn't just leave it at that. Tell me what else happened."

Zulu was uncertain which would wound Sandor more: a kiss shared between himself and Sansa or what he had offered Sansa afterwards. Steeling himself, Zulu pulled in a deep breath and met Sandor's irate stare, lifting his chin slightly as he spoke.

"I told her I could give her a chance at a normal life, that I could make her happy, keep her safe."

Sandor seemed to visibly wince at the words, and his face flushed an almost unnatural shade of crimson.  _Sansa is his Achilles heel, his weakness, his undoing._ Zulu had heard those words tossed around between made men in the days and weeks past. It was one thing to hear them and quite another to see it with his own eyes. He pitied Sandor and found himself marveling at the way in which the man was wounded. It was an odd thing, really; a brute of a man brought down by a wisp of a girl.

"You were going to bail with her, weren't you?" Sandor whispered as he slowly shook his head in disbelief.

Zulu gave a curt nod by way of reply and watched as Sandor slowly rose from his seat, bellowing out his words as he pressed his hands firmly against the table. Fury rolled off his body, permeating the small amount of space between them now as the man leaned across the table.

"Are you out of your goddamn mind? Tell me: how were you going to keep her safe all by yourself? You can't offer her that. It was a lie, and you knew it." Once more, Sandor unleashed his rage on the table. With each slam of his fist, sandwiches and silverware tumbled to the ground below. "You lied to her, and you lied to me! You honestly fucking thought you could do a better job at keeping her safe and making her happy?"

As the man became unhinged, a calm had come over Zulu. Or perhaps it was madness. In the end, he didn't quite know and imagined it had to be a bit of both. Whatever it was, it beckoned him to level his eyes to the Hound and stare straight into the face of wrath.

"Yes."

No sooner had the word hissed off of Zulu's lips than the table was being flipped over and careening towards the ground with a thunderous crash. The papers went scattering across the patio, dancing in the breeze.  _Time, effort, and duty. All for nothing._

It was his last coherent thought before he was being dragged from his chair by the front of his shirt. He had anticipated this, yes. What he hadn't anticipated was the way in which his body moved of its own accord, snatching up the bluntest object his fingers could reach, and how his arm was swinging that object – a heavy ceramic bowl – towards the Hound. The bowl cracked hard across the man's face, busting open the skin of his cheek and lip, both of which began oozing blood.

Eyes squeezed shut, Zulu felt as he was slammed into the ground with a force that knocked the air from his lungs. When his eyes flew open from the force of that alone, a solid blow of the Hound's fist cracked hard across his cheek and nose. Bones broke, and the taste of blood was filling his mouth. One, two, three more hits across his face. Zulu didn't know how many there were. He heard Sansa's frantic shrieks somewhere behind them. A male voice had joined the chorus, shouting for Sandor to stop. It was then Zulu felt Sandor's weight being pulled from off of him and his vision fading to black.

* * *

Upon stepping foot in the kitchen, Sansa had been immediately set to task at peeling and chopping vegetables. Mistakenly, she had thought it would just be her and the Italian mothers today - that she would listen to them recount more tales of their days in Italy, that she would sing along with them as they carried on tunes in their native tongue, that they would press her for details about her rekindled romance with Sandor.

Instead, she found that the kitchen was full of women, all working around one another as they settled into various spots around the large island and were tasked with duties by Carmelita: pulling meat off bones so that it could be pounded out, mixing dough so that it could be rolled into noodles, or in Sansa's case, peeling and chopping vegetables so that they might find their way into soups, salads, sauces, and whatever else the Italian mothers had conjured up for the menu.

It was a collective effort of all the women, and rightfully so; by Sandor's estimate, there were over a hundred people who had gathered at Moriarti's, a dozen or so families of capos and made men. When Sansa had asked if it was the entire organization, Sandor had looked at her as if she were mad, laughing until creases formed at the corners of his eyes as he shook his head. It was then that he clued her in to the magnitude of the organization: ten capos, each operating a crew of about forty to fifty soldiers. And it was then Sansa realized that the elite of the Moriarti had gathered at the mansion – capos and their families, a few honored made men, and the administration, as Sandor called it. The others had gone to the mattresses elsewhere, although Sandor did not say where. She presumed them to be close by and on guard as much as everyone at the mansion had readied themselves for what was coming.

When Sansa emerged in the kitchen, she was met with curious stares, some more welcoming than others. None greeted her though; rouged lips were pressed shut, and she was met with silence. It was Carmelita who gathered her up by the hand with a warm, albeit tense, smile and led her to where an assortment of vegetables had been dumped out on the counter, a cutting board and knife ready and waiting for her. On the other end of the island, Sansa could hear a few women whispering to one another, and when she lifted her eyes to them, they ceased their murmurs, busying their hands instead of their mouths. No one spoke to her, but it was made abundantly clear that she was the topic of conversation of at least a few of the women. The rest continued with their tasks, paying her no mind, although her presence was known.

The faces of these women were familiar to her, though she did not know their names, nor did she know how they fit into the picture. Were they wives, sisters, girlfriends, goomahs? She could not say for certain. Sansa was placed next to a woman she did not recognize and one who appeared just as isolated and ostracized as she was. With skin the color of mocha and the frizzy waves of her hair tied up in a bun, the woman hummed to herself as she peeled potatoes, her full hips swaying to the silent beat in her own head.

"I'm Nina," the woman finally spoke, a smile blossoming on her lips to reveal a small gap between her front teeth as she extended her hand to Sansa.

Sansa mimicked Nina's gesture, extending her hand to the woman with a grateful smile.

"I'm Sansa," she replied, tying the strings of her apron tightly around her waist. The woman gave a small, distracted nod as she resumed her task.

They stood in silence next to each other as they chunked up potatoes and placed them in a large bowl settled between them. As with all the others, Sansa became acutely aware of Nina's gaze shifting towards her, heavy with questions and unspoken thoughts. Unlike the others, though, Nina finally spoke to her.

"You're the boss' girl, right?"

By the way the question was phrased and with the cadence of a quiet breath, Sansa imagined this woman already knew the answer. Nina possessed a different sort of curiosity than the other women, though. Where she sensed some deviousness in the way the other women seemed to pry with their eyes, Sansa could tell Nina already knew about her and possibly bits and pieces of her background, too.

"Yeah, how did-" Sansa began before Nina interrupted with a snort and a shake of the head.

"Gossip spreads, especially when you get these ladies in a room together," Nina mumbled beneath her breath as she cast a furtive glance towards the women at the opposite end of the island.

When Sansa followed Nina's gaze, she was met with three sets of eyes already staring back at her. Tipping her chin up, Sansa matched her eyes to them, one right after the other until she was certain she had made it clear she wasn't intimidated by them.

"You know them?" Sansa asked, watching as the women now fawned over two more ladies who had joined their ranks in the kitchen. They squealed and squawked like hens, exchanging kisses on the cheeks and lengthy embraces.

"Yeah, I know them." Nina's words were loaded, heavy with past experiences and untold tales. "They gave me the cold shoulder too," she added with a mirthless chuckle.

"Are you…who is your…" Sansa did not quite know how to form her question, no more than she knew if it was somehow rude of her to ask.

It seemed these women asked little questions and instead were content to gather information through meddling exchanges and silent scrutiny. Sansa had not taken part in that. In her first days here, she was bereft and despondent, garnering more pity than interest. Mirabelle had bombarded her with a deluge of names and back stories of these women. She had struggled to keep it all straight, and most of what Mirabelle had imparted her with was gone, stored away in some recess of her mind where information she deemed useless went to be ultimately forgotten. Sansa knew now that these women no longer pitied her, nor did they view her as some harmless, broken thing to be set in the corner and forgotten. She was, indeed, Sandor's girl, and only now did she understand that that placed her somewhere in this hierarchy. Perhaps it was respect that she was owed but hadn't yet earned in the eyes of these women.

"I'm Disco's wife. Or Stephen as I know him," Nina replied, seeming to take no offence over the fact that, while she knew who Sansa was, Sansa had no idea who she was. "He's a capo."

Sansa did know that bit of information. Not only did these women know each other, they knew who the men were too. That had been Sandor's part, to explain to her who his men were, though he hadn't necessarily needed to give her that lesson. It was something Zulu had shared with her in their time spent together, and Sansa had made it a point to know the names of Sandor's men. It was her way of trying to fit in, trying to find her place in all of this. Only now did she realize that it wasn't the men of the Moriarti who were the gatekeepers of the organization. It was the women. The men ruled with strong arms and outward strength. The women ruled with soft touch and inward resilience, a silent sort of strength. And it was the women who decided who belonged and who didn't.

"Why are they like that?" Sansa asked as she discreetly motioned her head towards the women at the end of the counter now laughing loudly and seemingly occupied with one another. From what Sansa remembered in the days before Alonzo's funeral, the women had seemed friendly enough with Mirabelle, laughing at all of her jokes between sips of wine and complimenting Mirabelle up and down about everything from her sense of fashion to her sense of humor. In her naivete, Sansa had viewed those exchanges as a mark of true friendship, not realizing that perhaps it was put on. They may have tolerated Mirabelle, but the closeness they regarded her with was feigned. The women made no such effort to uphold appearances with Sansa. Instead, they ignored her. Sansa left whispers in her wake, and judgmental eyes seemed to follow her through the halls. That was the realm in which she existed here ~ seen but not spoken to.

"They have a chip on their shoulder with girls like you and me." Nina's words weren't quite bitter, but Sansa read the subtle acridity clear enough. "Just like some of the men have chips on their shoulders with guys who aren't Italian and don't have marinara sauce running through their veins."

Sansa let out a giggle at Nina's words, and her laughter roused the attention of the women, who exchanged glances with one another before each cocking their eyebrow at Nina and Sansa.

"Girls that grow up in the life, whose fathers were mafia men, tend to stick together," Nina continued with some measure of seriousness now. "They think girls like you and me, who didn't grow up in the life, are somehow less than, like we don't belong in this little underworld. Those women have fathers, brothers, uncles who are all somehow involved in the mafia. Some of the men view them as being the crème de la crème. They call them 'forbidden fruit'. Essentially, they're nice Italian girls that the men want settle down with."

 _Stand up girls._ Sansa remembered Vinny using that phrase and implicitly knowing what it meant even before he seethed it into her ear. These women were ready and willing to take the fall ~ martyrs to the blade.

"Oh," was all Sansa managed by way of reply. "I thought they might be goomahs," she added as an afterthought, speaking out loud when she didn't quite mean to.

Laughing heartily, Nina shook her head, staring at Sansa with the same look Sandor had given her when she assumed the whole of the organization was now housed in the Moriarti mansion. It seemed there was a lot she did not know and even more she needed to learn.

"Hell no! The goomahs won't be here, girl. The men have a war on their hands. The last thing they want or need is the war that would go down between the wives and goomahs."

"I see. I guess I didn't realize…I just assumed that…" Sansa let her words fall short, distracted now.

_War. The men are going to war._

Sansa implicitly understood the markings of battle taking shape around her. It was in the hushed murmurs and worried eyes, the lengthy meetings and gathering of resources. Only now did she see it as a collective whole, the picture of something she did not quite understand, still. As it stood, she existed somewhere in limbo, caught between two realities. Regardless, in both worlds, war meant death, and death was upon them, thick as ever and haunting the walls of this place. Some of the men were marked for it already, the reaper coming like a thief in the night to forewarn of their demise. She saw it in their faces, and they seemed to struggle with their fate. And now Sansa understood the weight of the world that seemed to follow Sandor into the early hours of the morning. There was no rest for the weary. If his dreams foretold his own fate, he did not share it with her, and she feared for him now in a way she hadn't even thought to before. He was a man, after all, not immortal, not a god, not a monster. He was susceptible to death, just like all the rest.

A hush fell over the kitchen, each set of conversations seeming to simultaneously draw to a close. Somewhere in the distance, Sansa heard shouting. The noise carried in from outside and disappeared amongst the reemergence of white noise in the kitchen, lost in the din of resuscitated laughter and conversations. She had stilled her movements to listen, straining against all the other sounds to hear as a knot formed at the pit of her stomach. When the shouting had quieted, Sansa dismissed it and continued chopping carrots. After a few moments, she caught the sound of shouting once more. It was louder this time and possessed the familiar timbre of Sandor's voice. Her gaze flew to the clock, quickly measuring the time and suddenly realizing it was entirely likely that Sandor was still meeting with Zulu.

When a thunderous crash sounded from outside, the other women heard it, all falling silent immediately as they exchanged wide-eyed looks of confusion and fear. Sansa's knife dropped to the cutting board, and she ignored Nina's confounded questioning as she dashed from the kitchen through the great room and outside.

She ran down the outside steps to the patio below as fast as her wobbly legs would carry her. Her vision blurred, and a sudden dizziness moved through her body as fear rooted itself firmly within her. Sansa heard exerted grunts and pained groans, the sounds of two men struggling against one another.

The table had been flipped over, food and broken dishes scattered across the patio, stray papers being lifted in the breeze. When a shriek pierced her ears, it had taken Sansa a moment to realize it came from her own lips. Her hands trembled, and more screaming came at the sight of Sandor on top of Zulu, repeatedly slamming his fist into the boy's face, which was a bloodied mess. She couldn't move, even if she wanted to; her feet felt cemented in place and all she could do was scream for Sandor to stop. Over and over again, the words left her lips, but the sound of her voice seemed to incite his rage even further.

After what felt like an eternity, Bronn was pushing past her and throwing his weight on top of Sandor, pulling with all his might in insistent yanks as he, too, joined Sansa's frantic protests.

"Sandor! Stop!" the man shouted with each hard tug. Finally successful, Sandor and Bronn went tumbling backwards away from Zulu, who rolled slightly to his side with a moan. His eyes were swollen shut, his lips bleeding and each breath a gurgle as he spit up blood.

Sandor had not been spared. His face was bloodied too, she saw. His lip had been busted open, and blood was dribbling down his chin while a gash emerged across his cheek, also seeping blood. By sight alone, Sansa could tell it had not been a fair fight, Zulu having faired much worse.

Sandor scrambled to his feet, shoving Bronn off him and barely noticing her as his eyes fixated on Zulu with a maniacal rage she had hoped never to see in him again. Holding out his hand and staring at Sandor with silent warning, Bronn had stepped between Sandor and Zulu's form still crumpled and whimpering on the ground.

Still trembling and with her mouth perpetually agape in horror and shock, Sansa felt the tears, unbidden, rolling down her cheeks. When her own whimper escaped her lips, Sandor's head snapped towards her, his eyes locking onto hers. She could not name what she saw stirring behind his eyes. With anger momentarily subsiding, it was pain she saw – the dull ache of heartbreak, the sting of loss. He looked away as he wiped the blood from his chin and did not speak as he retreated up the outside steps with heavy stomps. He did not spare her any glances or words. Instead, Sandor moved past her as if she did not exist.

When Sansa heard the shouting, she had known somewhere in the pit of her stomach what was transpiring. She had waited too long to tell Sandor the truth of Zulu's advances. She had been afraid. One way or another, though, it seemed her fears always manifested, regardless.

"Sandor," she called after him as she scurried up the steps. He responded by slamming the patio door behind him so violently she feared the glass might shatter. Inside, he was heading towards the front door, past the kitchen where the women were now clustered together, watching in disbelief and shocked silence. Running to keep up with him, Sansa reached him in the foyer.

"Sandor! Wait," she insisted on a quivering breath. Her fingers coiled around his wrist as she pulled him towards her. When he yanked his arm away from her, she went stumbling forward, careening into him.

Spinning on his heel, he stared down at her as she steadied herself on her feet. It was all for naught; her legs felt weak, and as she stared up at him despite her fear, she felt small, so much smaller than him.

"Were you going to tell me?" he demanded, his voice echoing loudly through the foyer. She stepped backwards away from him, but her movements were matched as he moved towards her. Sansa felt as if she might crumble beneath the heaviness he regarded her with, the intensity as he waited, chest frantically heaving, for her answer.

"Yes," she whispered, her voice thin, although she put power behind it. Her back met the wall now, though she garnered no strength from it. It held her up on her feet, but it did not still her shaking, and it did not stop the tears that blurred her vision.

"When? When it was convenient for you?" Sandor raged, the booming of his voice causing her to flinch. He turned away from her, bounding towards the staircase.

"Stop," Sansa pleaded as she dashed towards him. They were playing at a dangerous game of cat and mouse, each chasing after the other in turn. It started here, and it ended with both of them licking their respective wounds, separated from one another before ultimately coming back for more. It had to stop.

"Please!" she cried out, tears staining her cheeks which burned hot.

Sandor had only made it up the first few steps. Gripping the banister, he cast his gaze down towards her below. She stared up at him, evaluating his statuesque form as it loomed above her. Seeing the tears streaming down her face, Sandor's eyes stirred with conflicting desires. It seemed as if he might relent ~ that he might come to her now, and they would chase each other's hurts away as they had done before.

Instead, he closed his eyes, blinding himself – to what, she did not know: to her perhaps, to everything that vexed him. His resolve seemed to strengthen, drawing on reserves of composure she did not know existed in him. He was fire, Sandor Clegane. He burned wild and untamed. This was something different; the markings of a new man, perhaps. He was buttoning up all that rage, hiding it away so that she might not see. He looked defeated, and he looked broken ~ if not by whatever transpired with Zulu, then by the fact that the fires of wrath had been stoked once more.

When he opened his eyes, Sandor turned his gaze away from her, looking down at his feet as his hair fell in a curtain around his face.

"No, I want to be alone right now," he murmured. Sansa could hear him pulling in labored breaths, and when she climbed up one step of the staircase towards him, she saw that he, too, was shaking.

"For how long?"

It was foolish to ask, she knew that very well, but desperate desires made her say the words. It was her own mania, a frenzy that she couldn't stop and one that was beckoned by the thoughts of being at odds with this man once more.

Sandor's head lifted, an irate stare settling onto her as his jaw tensed and cheeks flushed red.

"For how long?" he breathed incredulously as he took one step down the stairs towards her. "For as long as it takes for me to wrap my head around why the fuck Zulu thought it was a good idea to leave with you," he shouted now, his voice crescendoing with every word. "And why the fuck my men are turning on me left and right since…"

He stopped himself short, shifting his eyes away from her as he glowered at the wall next to them instead.

"Say it," Sansa demanded as she stomped up the only remaining step between them. "Go on. Say it!" Now it was her own voice echoing loudly through the foyer, the sound of which brought Sandor's eyes back towards her.

With his lips sealed shut and the intensity of his gaze burning through her, she knew he wouldn't speak the words. She did not belong here. She was a novelty of the underworld, but she did not belong. She could learn the names of his men, she could earn her stripes with the women, she could assure him and the others, over and over again, that she would be a stand-up girl. It would make no difference because she did not belong. She would never belong.

"Since I've been here," she spoke for him, her words shaky with uncertainty and suppressed sobs, though tears spilled freely down her cheeks. "It's me, Sandor. Even I can tell you that. I don't belong here, and they all know it. You know it too."

 _Tell me I'm wrong,_ she pleaded in the shelter of her own mind. She hoped the plea would find him, that it would pass between them as it always did.  _Tell me it's not true. It's you and it's me. Tell me._

If she thought she was alone in the pain and doubt which lashed at her heart, she was certainly mistaken. She saw it in him, too, as he looked down towards her.

"Yeah, I do know it. I know it now," he spoke, but there was no vitriol in his words. They were not meant to wound, although they ripped through her all the same, loosing the sob she had been fighting against. When the gasp escaped her, followed by fresh tears, Sandor bit down hard on his bottom lip.

"Please," she whispered, reaching out and placing her hand on top of his hand which still gripped the banister. His eyes followed her movements, squeezing shut at her touch.

"No, I'm done," he whispered back to her, pulling his hand out from underneath hers before turning away and continuing up the stairs.

She watched him walk away from her, waiting to see if he might spare her a glance or come back to her. In the end, he never did. She heard his foot falls continue all the way up the stairs and listened until she could not hear them anymore. With her legs finally giving out, she collapsed to the steps below her. Silently, she cried, sucking in quiet breaths so that the others would not hear. Certainly, they had already heard enough. Gathering what little dignity she had left, Sansa worked to calm herself as she dabbed at the tears with the skirt of her apron.

From below, she heard worried voices in the kitchen along with a flurry of activity. When Bronn's voice carried through the foyer, Sansa hurried down the steps and towards the kitchen. Zulu was settled in a seat at the breakfast table, Bronn looking on as the women wiped the last traces of blood from his face and offered him packages of frozen vegetables to help with the swelling.

As Sansa entered the kitchen, all eyes seemed to fall on her simultaneously as the voices all quieted now. Through swollen eyes, Zulu looked at her but quickly looked away. Stepping towards the table, Sansa paid no mind to the women gathered around. They cleared away from her, backing away as she stood in front of Zulu.

"What happened?" she demanded from the boy. He would not meet her eyes, instead he dabbed at the fresh blood on his lips. "What did you tell him?" Sansa continued on, undeterred as Bronn settled a hand on her shoulder.

"Not now, doll," he spoke gravely. "Shows over, ladies," Bronn announced to the rest of the kitchen as the women snickered and stared, clearly having heard all that transpired and relishing in the drama of it all.

Before leaving, Bronn offered Sansa a wan smile. He looked sickly to her: eyes red, face gaunt, skin ashen and thin. As Sandor's friend and underboss, it was his duty to go after him, to speak with him, to perhaps be a voice of reason. When he left the kitchen, Sansa knew he would not be doing any of that. Where he went, she did not know, but he was hurting too.

"I'll take care of the rest of this." Nina had materialized next to her, motioning her head towards the uncut pile of vegetables still on the counter. "Why don't you go take a breather?" she suggested gently.

"No," Sansa murmured with a shake of the head. "No. I'll stay."She resumed her place at the counter, amongst the women who continued to whisper and stare. She stayed, continuing her work, though it was clear now she did not belong.

_I have nowhere else to go. I do not belong here. I do not belong anywhere._

* * *

Anger is easy. Like lust, it is primal and not swiftly sated. Anger is indulgent. It consumes like a glutton. It's never enough until everything is destroyed. Anger propels outwards, its vector fixed and escaping through every last exit ~ swinging fists and screaming words. Anger is released and ultimately a beast of burden put on others. Worst of all, anger is gratifying in the most selfish kind of way.

Anger had been immediate, and it mocked the vows of change that Sandor had openly declared to her. He had been foolish to assume that, by words alone, the demon of wrath could be vanquished. Vengeance and violence were the scaffolds on which Sandor had meticulously built his existence; to suddenly expel those things and not expect his life to crumble and fall like ash from the sky had been a naïve oversight on his part.

Pain is hard. Unlike rage, it works from the outside in - finding all the normally imperceptible weaknesses and exploiting them to burrow deep beneath the skin. Pain compounds on itself until the simplest things – the things which necessitate survival – become difficult.

It was the way in which the pain superseded anger that left Sandor reeling. There was fear to be found in pain; the worry that it might never leave, that it would weave its way into his existence, now, and haunt him through his years. It would consume him; it would take all that he cherished and destroy until there was nothing left. Pain operated much like anger, but he was the target, and the burden now weighed heavily upon him. It manifested physically in labored breaths and a pounding heart. Pain was hard, somuch harder than anger, and now he understood, perhaps for the first time in his life, the reasons in which he had never let the sadness consume him like it did his sister and his mother too. Anger was easy, and he was a coward in that way – choosing it over sadness for so many years.

Sandor had sought refuge in his office, the only place he knew to go where he would not be seen or bothered. His mother's necklace was on his desk, the amethyst intermittently catching the light of the sun as he gently rocked back and forth in his chair. He knew what she might say if she were still alive.

_'There will come another. And you'll love her more.'_

He closed his eyes at the thought, shutting out the disembodied words and rejecting the notion altogether. When Sandor opened his eyes, he had brought his right hand to hover in front of his face. He stared at the line of affection, the only line that was there, before ultimately balling his fist.

 _My fate belongs to me,_ he affirmed grimly to himself, although it was becoming harder to believe his own affirmations.

With that, Sandor snatched up the necklace and shoved it into his desk drawer, pushing it towards the back to reside amongst stacks of dusty papers and inkless pens.  _Tuck it away,_ he told himself.  _Push it away, and worry about it some other time._

And that was how pain and sadness compounded, he knew, but he did not care. Anger or sadness – it made no matter to him, but sadness could be put away for now. It wouldn't seek an immediate release like anger, and so he relented to it.

Sandor thought about the days ahead, focused on all that required his immediate attention. It was a temporary distraction, but it worked all the same. Pulling out a notepad, he gathered his thoughts on a blank page, not minding the way his hand trembled across the paper as he wrote. He neatly transcribed his thoughts as a series of events which needed to occur. He gathered and organized them in a list, one right after the other, until realizing that he did not understand why it mattered anymore. He could check all of these things off his list, but to what end?

_'I could give her a chance at a normal life, I could make her happy, keep her safe.'_

Sandor dropped his pen to the notepad where it landed with a dull thud. Those things – all the things someone else had offered her before he had – that was the end. It was the one he wanted for her. She did not belong here, that much was true. And it was true that he knew it long before she had even said it herself. Sansa deserved more. It was a plain and simple truth. Not some secret that only he was privy to. Of course, others knew it as well. Sansa Stark did not deserve the pain and suffering she had known since the night of the Royce party. Sandor had thought to be the one to give her more than what his world had to offer, but ultimately he knew to yield to a better man. Zulu was not a better man than him. He was the same, only younger and greener.

An abrupt knock came at Sandor's office door, hard and sharp and damn near scaring the shit out of him. When Sandor called for whomever it was to come in, the door opened smoothly and slowly. It was AWOL who appeared. The man did not enter but did not cower behind the door, either. If Sandor told him to fuck off, the man would leave without insult or question.

Sandor did not tell him to fuck off, but instead motioned his head for AWOL to come in and watched as the man settled in the seat across from Sandor's desk, elbows resting on the arms of the chair as he eased back in the seat. Lean and muscled, AWOL wasn't a large man, but he could be intimidating, regardless. He was ruthless and hotheaded but cautious too. Despite having abandoned his military service long ago, the man still wore a buzz cut and kept himself clean shaven. His face was weathered from sand, sun, and stress – the souvenirs from his time spent schlepping it in the deserts of Iraq and Kuwait.

"You and your girl having problems?" AWOL ventured carefully when Sandor did not speak. While the man regarded him with a healthy amount of respect, AWOL did not mince words. He did not pepper them with "sir" and "boss". He spoke freely, and he spoke honestly. Sandor had come to value that now more than ever. He was tired of being buttered up by those who would ultimately betray him.

"You heard," Sandor exhaled on a mirthless laugh as he twirled a pen between his fingers.

"I think everyone heard," AWOL chuckled, dispersing a bit of the heaviness between them. "Whether you two are fighting or…uh…making up, you're not exactly quiet about it. Not you, at least."

Sandor joined in with AWOL's laughter, although there was little joy to be found. Rather, this was a reminder of the supreme insult to injury this entire situation had developed into. He and Sansa had only just rediscovered both the happiness and the pleasure to be found with one another. To have it taken away now was surely a cruel jest of whatever fucking gods worked to taunt him endlessly.

"You heard that too," Sandor spoke through a waning smile. AWOL seemed to understand and gave a sympathetic nod by way of reply.

Tension fell between them once more as AWOL steadied his eyes on Sandor.

"What are we going to do about the kid?" he asked with a familiar danger sharpening his words.

AWOL did not take lightly to broken vows of any kind. It was strange coming from a man who hightailed it out of service to his country. The honor and pride to be found as a soldier had been transferred to his duties as a capo. No one questioned it but instead understood that AWOL had displaced some of the shame he felt at shirking his military duties by dedicating his life to the vows he made as a member of the Moriarti. He had no wife, although his rotation of goomahs was ever growing.

" _We_?" Sandor scoffed bitterly. "He's my problem. I'll figure it out."

He watched as AWOL bit his bottom lip at that, visibly irked as he gripped the armrests of his chair.

"The rest of us are getting tired of this shit too, you know," AWOL seethed through gritted teeth.

"What shit?" Sandor questioned, narrowing his eyes at the man.

"This turning face shit." AWOL lowered his voice as he scooted to the edge of his chair. "Vinny, Marco, these young fuckin' turks." The man drew in a deep breath before leveling his eyes on Sandor once more. "More of us are behind you than you probably realize."

Sure enough, it seemed the exchange of words between him and Sansa, the words which echoed through the foyer of the mansion, had met the ears of many. This was a gesture of reassurance, and it wasn't one that Sandor had asked for, but AWOL sought him out all the same. Sandor could see that plainly enough and appreciated not only the sentiment, but the execution. This wasn't a grandiose gesture of contrived words and empty condolences. It was simple, but sincere.

With the blur of his thoughts clearing a bit, Sandor closed his eyes, visualizing the first two items on his list. When he opened his eyes again, AWOL was watching him, waiting for Sandor's response.

"You were concerned about us getting into some beef with the Caballero," Sandor spoke on a voice deep and grave. "I think you're right. We need them on our side. And they need us too, though they don't realize it yet."

Sandor watched as AWOL's brow creased with something between confusion and concern. Not stopping to puzzle out which had afflicted the man's countenance, Sandor continued.

"This is risky, and it could blow up in our faces. If it does, Gregor is the least of our problems. The Caballero wanted to strong arm Marco into turning face. Vinny made it sound like it was because they wanted Moriarti business. I think that's only part of it. The Severelli were distributing for the cartel, running their shit through L.A. and Reno but not through Vegas. We own Vegas. That's our town. It also happens to be the one place the Caballero haven't broken into yet."

AWOL seemed to stew over Sandor's words, chewing his bottom lip and nodding his head silently as he sifted through the pieces of it all.

"You think it wasn't so much about having the Moriarti distribute for the cartel, but they wanted backing in Vegas, a piece of that territory." It wasn't a question but an assertion, a demonstration that AWOL, indeed, had his thumb to the pulse of this organization and all that occurred around it. It was intelligence founded in intuition, something many of the other men scoffed at but severely lacked.

"The cartel doesn't need distributors," Sandor confirmed with a nod. "Why would they put themselves through a bloodbath to have some wise guys pushing drugs for them? They've got the manpower for that. They needed the territory. They're losing Miami to the Ybarra and will continue to do so. They've set their sights on Vegas.

"Miguel Martinez is an old fuck. He wants to hand off his legacy and be done with this shit. Marco was his ticket to doing that. Gregor has fucked up repeatedly: the botched hit, murdering Marco to get to us, sparking all-out war now. If I'm viewing this correctly, Martinez is probably regretting his decision to align himself with Gregor and the Severelli just to get his hands on our territory."

"So what are you thinking?" AWOL asked, crossing his arms over his chest. "We offer Martinez free range over Vegas in exchange for what?"

"In exchange for his backing when we wipe Gregor and the Severelli off the map." It was a long shot, and Sandor knew it. They would likely have to offer something else to sweeten the pot. What exactly that was, Sandor did not know, and that uncertainty seemed to register with AWOL as well. The man shook his head slightly with a sigh, seemingly unconvinced.

"Going to war with the Severelli  _and_  the cartel is a suicide mission," Sandor warned ominously. "We'd be lambs to the fucking slaughter. There's no question about it."

He had surmised this for some time, knowing full well that the Severelli-cartel alliance would be the end of the Moriarti. The writing had been on the wall for years and was only now threatening to come to a head if they did not act.

"So how does this play out?" AWOL pressed. He was a smart man, and when he had voiced his concerns about getting into heat with the cartel, Sandor knew that AWOL understood what this was shaping up to be. This wasn't war they were going into. To call it war was to suggest that the fight presented an equal chance of victory for either side. Truly, it was a deliberate and inevitable slaughter of the Moriarti.

"I want to arrange a meeting with Martinez. We'll put the deal on the table – full backing and run of Vegas; he can operate out of Emilio's old card room in exchange for him leading us to Gregor and his men."

"This could very well be an opportunity for Martinez to take you out," AWOL cautioned, although Sandor was already aware of the risks. "You, Bronn, whoever else goes. This is a serious gamble, Sandor. This meeting could be the suicide mission."

"The alternative is we go into this by ourselves and get obliterated by the Severelli and the cartel," Sandor reasoned definitively. "I'll take the gamble." He had been over every possible scenario countless times. This was the only one that held any sort of promise of his men coming out alive and intact.

AWOL remained quiet for many moments, staring down at Sandor's desk as silent thoughts roamed through the man's head. When he finally lifted his eyes, Sandor knew he was on board. A cocksure smile tugged at the corners of AWOL's mouth, and his eyes gleamed with tenacity.

"I'm behind you. We'll get this shit done. And if the cartel wants to fuck with us at this little summit, we'll light them up like the Fourth of July."

Sandor exhaled a laugh as he nodded his head. For better or for worse, this was it - their way out of the mess they had landed in. After a few moments, Sandor's smile had faded, and AWOL's excitement had ceased.

"Where is the kid?" Sandor asked, lowering his eyes towards his notepad.

"With Bronn and Murdoch," he heard AWOL say. "They took him to the hospital. His nose is busted up pretty good, and he's going to need stitches, more than likely."

Sandor did not respond but nodded his head in silence as small tendrils of remorse seemed to emerge.  _The motherfucker brought it on himself,_ Sandor reasoned within himself, fist clenching with resuscitated anger.

"I don't know all of what happened, but I do know this shit with Zulu has something to do with your girl," AWOL speculated in earnest as he broke the silence.

Once more, Sandor did not speak. He did not want to rehash it, to reignite it all by repeating the words that had been spoken and all that had been revealed to him. Instead, he sealed his lips together in what was a scowl, most like. It all seemed to suddenly register with AWOL, regardless, as the man leaned forward in his seat once more, his body tensing and gaze hardening.

"Listen to me, because this is part of the shit I'm sick of too," AWOL began. "It shouldn't matter who the fuck Sansa is, DA's daughter or not. She's your girl. You chose her, she chose you. You fell in love, shit happens. End of the fucking story. When the men disrespect her, they disrespect you too. I'm not the kind to settle down with just one woman, you know that, but if I was you, I'd make an example out of Zulu. Show these fucks what happens when they mess with you." With that, AWOL motioned his head towards Sandor's face, towards the gash at his cheek and his busted lip.

Sandor knew what he would have to do, what he was expected to do. It was her face, though, that he saw: the sadness in her eyes, the disappointment, the horror at knowing what he had done. Sansa would notice the kid's absence, and she would understand what it meant.  _It doesn't matter anymore,_ some part of him chided. It shouldn't matter, but it did. It mattered to her, he knew, and despite his frustration, that meant it mattered to him too.

"I can't out-and-out ice him right now," Sandor finally responded, his fingers still unwittingly clenched in a tight fist. This did not escape AWOL, who stared at Sandor's fist before lifting his eyes.

"If you want me to take care of him, just give the word," AWOL offered gravely. "The kid will disappear."

It was no idle threat being placed on the table. AWOL would do what needed to be done without questioning why Sandor couldn't do it himself. But it wouldn't matter. The end result would be the same – her sadness, her disappointment, her horror.

"No," Sandor declined with a bitter growl and a shake of his head. "When this shit goes down with the Severelli, I'm going to send Zulu into the fray first. He'll go alone. The others will get the message loud and clear. If he and I make it out, I'll take care of him then and there, before we leave."

"He won't be coming back from war," AWOL chuckled darkly with a shake of his head, the man's bloodlust apparent.

"No. He won't," Sandor affirmed, although he did not share in AWOL's deviant joy.

Sandor would do what was expected of him by his men. As their boss and their leader, the job would get done, and yet the depravity of it left a sour taste in his mouth. It was contrived to satisfy all sides – the organization he would ultimately walk away from and the girl who he could not stop trying to please. It was pathetic, he knew. Like much else, he could think of no better way, no easier solution.

"Our associate found Ned Stark," AWOL informed with trepidation, the words a slow amble from his tongue. "He's taking your advice and lying low; got himself holed up in a town outside of Redding."

Sandor watched as AWOL licked his lips and dropped his eyes with a nervous laugh.

"I wasn't sure if you were still wanting to keep an eye on him or what the deal was going to be now."

The man's words were laced with uncertainty, questioning as he lifted his gaze to Sandor for some direction on the matter. Sandor told his capos of his plan for Ned – the plan to hire an outside associate to find him and keep an eye on him for the time being. While Sandor had always had a vested interest in what Ned Stark was up to, the men seemed to sense the change in his motivations. Ned's case was a moot point, obliterated much like the rest of the man's existence. Nonetheless, Sandor's capos had nodded their heads with knowing eyes when he made the announcement to them and quietly confessed his desire to keep tabs on the man, still, but not delving into the details of why. None had asked for an explanation, and for that Sandor had been grateful.

"Yes," Sandor affirmed curtly. "I still want him being watched."

"You got it," AWOL responded before pushing himself up from the chair. Grinning, he nodded his head towards Sandor, who returned an uneasy smile and watched as the man left his office.

Sitting in silence for long moments after AWOL's departure, Sandor felt sorrow press upon him once more. He effectually writhed beneath it. He paced his office, willing it away with each stride. It held fast to him and did not pass or cease, so he did all he knew to do – to go to her, although he didn't quite know what to say, to seek her out, although he no longer knew where they stood. He had failed her once more, done all the things he had promised never to do again. He had seen the fear in her eyes and the hurt too.  _Go crawl back to her,_ some voice spoke inside him, hateful and loathing.  _Tell her you're sorry and that it will never happen again, just like you did before._

Sandor retreated from his office with some unearthly inertia which propelled him forward, though the path was unclear, obscured by an played God in his own world, the master of this microcosm of the Universe. He had declared just this morning that he did not believe in fate, implicitly suggesting that he wove the threads of his own destiny. It seemed Sandor was being forced to eat those words, to give up the ghost. If he truly had a heavy hand in his own fate, Mirabelle would be alive, and the pieces of his existence would be put together once more. As it stood, darkness was creeping in at every turn, and he knew not where he was headed.

In the kitchen, a handful of women were still working while the others had dispersed. The only eyes which welcomed him as he entered the room were Nina's. The others knew he was there but lowered their gazes away from him as they continued to busy themselves with the tasks at hand.

"Nina," Sandor greeted somberly as he nodded his head towards the woman.

"Boss man," she responded with a wan smile and knowing stare as she continued to knead dough. "She's outside," the woman added before averting her gaze like all the others.

With a murmured "thank you", Sandor made his way across the kitchen, through the great room, and out the back door. Even before he found Sansa sitting on the patio steps, dabbing at tears with the skirt of her apron, Sandor had heard her sniffles and soft whimpers. Each sound escaping her lips tore through him, assaulting him as he approached her silently, hands stuffed in his pockets.

When Sandor lowered himself to sit next to her, he noticed the flour in her hair and on the front of her apron, a symbol of what she had done, though she may not recognize it herself. Sandor knew, and he understood. Sansa had endured once more, prevailing over her own pain and absorbing its cruel blow. She didn't retreat from it like he did. She held her head up through tears and did what she felt was needed of her. If she only knew she was stronger than him in this way. If only she could see herself the way he saw her now.

"I was going to tell you," Sansa wept on a quivering breath, refusing to look at him when she spoke. "I knew you'd get upset. Everything between us had been going so well. I was scared."

Her voice had trailed off to a whisper as she licked at the salty tears rolling down her cheeks and over her lips.

"Scared of me or scared of what would happen to us?" Sandor asked solemnly. There was now irony to be found in this talk of fear – her fears and his. He was scared too, afraid of her answer.

"Both," she sighed, her face flushed red from crying.

His immediate response was to close his eyes - a futile attempt to blind himself to the truth, though it was what he deserved.  _Two steps forward; a tumble, step, and fall back._ Every instance of fear she had with him propelled them backwards. No amount of pleading apologies or gentle caresses could make up for it. The sharp shock of pain he felt cut deep, but the blade was his own, not hers. He had done it to himself as much as he had done it to her.

"Zulu wanted to leave with you that night. You know that, don't you? That is what he asked of you, wasn't it?" Sandor gathered stray traces of composure and stared at the ground as he clasped his hands in front of him.

"I do know that," Sansa responded softly. "I didn't want to go with him. I refused. A hundred times over, I would refuse him and anyone else."

She turned to look at him despite the tears. They came freely, he saw, when he matched her sorrowful eyes. These tears would not be bottled up, and they would not come behind closed doors, well away from him so that he would not know how she hurt. Instead, she let him see, staring at him in earnest as if she thought he wouldn't believe her. He did believe her, though, and saw the same truth he had blinded himself to moments earlier. She meant every word she spoke and with every breath she spoke it on.

"He told me that he wanted to give you a normal life. I can't get angry about him wanting that for you because it's what I want for you too. You deserve that, Sansa." Reaching towards her, Sandor brushed a bit of flour out of her hair. The contact – small as it was – elicited fresh tears from her. "You deserve a normal life. Free from all of this shit." Sandor motioned his head towards the Moriarti mansion - the looming symbol of the life he bought into, sealing his fate in blood and oaths. In this way, he had turned the tides of his own fate so many years ago. He directed himself towards a certain destruction. It was what he needed to protect her from, now, and was everything he wanted to take her away from.

"I don't know if my life will be normal again," Sansa pleaded with a shake of her head, pulling his hand into her own and wrapping her trembling fingers around his palm. "Even if it was, I don't want it with him. It's you. I want you."

She lowered her eyes with what he could only call shame, as if she had committed an egregious act, something truly unforgivable. He could have laughed – and would have if it weren't for how genuinely remorseful she was, seemingly certain he would reject her now and expel her from his world. Moments such as these came unexpectedly and every so often between the two of them; moments where he could not for the life of him understand how, despite all the horror, loss, and pain she had been put through, Sansa prevailed over guile and preserved purity of heart.

With her head hung, tears fell and patted her hand still clinging to his. Sandor relented and pulled his hand free to cup her cheek, the pad of his thumb catching the tears as he lifted her head gently to look at him.

"I've kept things from you too." Though just a vague admission, Sandor struggled to keep his eyes from falling away from her.

Sniffling, Sansa's brows knitted together in confusion as she waited for him to continue. It was the last secret between them, and now it was his hands that quivered as he conjured up the will to confess his own truths to her. Once more, she gathered his hands into her own and placed them on her lap, giving a small squeeze.

"You remember E.Z.? The kid who came with Vinny the day I left for Crescent City?" Sandor asked with apprehension. When Sansa gave a small nod, Sandor licked his lips and felt a tremble run through him.

"He's part of Vinny's crew from Redding. When he came that day, I heard the things he said to you, and I saw the way he was looking at you. I hated him; I barely knew the kid, but I hated him. I wanted to strangle him right then and there. I didn't. Instead, I held it together and told him to ride with me that day. On the way up to Crescent City, I talked with him. I baited him into saying things he probably wouldn't have ever dreamed of saying if he knew that you and I were together. You see, I led him down that path, I laid the bait, and he took it. I knew it was only going to make me angry, even more livid than I already was, but I did it anyway. All I cared about was how I wanted to hurt him. I drove down a secluded side road in the Redwood Forest. I was irate by then with the things he said about you."

Sansa's eyes had widened by now, filled with tears and the fear he had hoped to never see again, lips trembling as she sucked in shaky breaths.

"I guess that doesn't really matter. It was fucked up. Even for me, even by my standards, what I had contemplated doing to him, what I had  _almost_ done to him was fucked up. I don't know how I even took it that far. I wanted to hurt him. I really did. I wanted to  _murder_ him, Sansa. I almost did it too. I've killed people before but never like that. On his knees, gun shoved down his throat, scared out of his mind, crying as he waited for me to pull the trigger. I don't know how it got that far."

The memories of that day had been tucked away, covered up with distractions and excuses. Now, it all came tumbling down, a monstrous burden to bear, and Sandor felt himself cripple beneath it. The magnitude of evil, remembrance of mania, and the abysmal depths of cruelty Sandor had never hoped himself capable of reaching, he was forced to face it all with no filter to the ugliness.

"What stopped you?" Sansa cried with gasping breaths, horrified but still holding his hand as she shook like a leaf next to him.

"You did," Sandor answered weakly. He felt shame anew as a warm wetness emerged on his cheeks, his own tears. They fell silent but not unnoticed, although he could no longer look her in the eyes.

"Me?" Sansa repeated, incredulous and disbelieving.

"You called me a monster once. I've been called that before, by many people. Coming from you, though, it was different. I didn't even know you then, but I knew it felt different. It wasn't something I could wear with pride, but instead, became something I was ashamed of."

He hadn't forgotten their first conversation when she had come to him battered, bruised, crying, and scared. Her fear was his upper hand, or so he thought, but she had unmanned him by seeing him for what he truly was. He hadn't forgotten how it stung, the unusual way in which it wounded him, although he hardly knew anything about her then. He could have easily written her off as some stupid girl who knew nothing of the life he had led, the hardships he had endured. He could have laughed in her face and told her she didn't know a monster when she saw one. He could have clued her in to how close she had come to meeting the real monster. Instead, he took the blow and swallowed it down, telling himself that he was different than his brother, although, at the end of the day, monsters all look the same to the innocent.

"When we fight, when I scare you, when I make you cry, I feel like a monster," Sandor continued quietly as he willed his voice to come evenly. It was for naught, and each word was a quiver. To try to hold the pieces of his composure together was useless, now, as he felt himself coming undone at the seams.

Something in the way Sansa regarded him had softened. Her tears had ceased, and her thumb was running circles over the top of his hand, a gesture of comfort. She was going to excuse it all, he knew. Sansa would speak loving words and gently reassure him that her hurts and her fears were only a small matter. She would tidy up all the unsavory details with sweet smiles and soft touches. Before she could do any of this, Sandor began again, cutting off her words before they formed on her lips.

"I worry that you love the idea of what I can be, what I might be in the future. Not who I am now. Right now, I'm something between what I was before I met you and what I think you deserve. You may love me in the moments I'm at my best, but you've seen me at my worst too. And you're afraid of me then, Sansa. I'm afraid of me then too. I'm afraid of what I'm capable of. I want to be a better man, just like I told you, but it doesn't take away from all the fucked up shit I've done.

I wonder sometimes if things had been different, would everything be playing out between us like it is now. We've come together under unusual circumstances, and I can't help but wonder if we will come apart when we have to exist together in the real world, not some fucked up version of reality we're in now. I wonder if you feel this way about me because I've kept you safe, and you're confusing gratitude for love."

Sandor drew in a deep breath when he finished. They were hard words: hard for her to hear and harder for him to speak, but there were things he feared too, things which kept him awake at night, things which taunted him into the early hours of the morning.

"I want to change," he whispered, lowering his head in defeat. "I feel like I fucked it all up, that I'll keep fucking it up."

With his eyes lowered, he could not see Sansa but felt the way she shifted next to him as she remained quiet for many moments. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft yet stern, her words heavy and serious as she drew on some reserve of strength.

"Did you expect it to be easy or to come without a challenge? I didn't. I knew you would be tested. That's how the Universe works, Sandor. Anyone can say words – words of love, words of hate, words of change – and for whatever reason they want, whether they mean it or not. That was your test: to see if you meant it. And it's clear you do. You can't erase your past. What's done is done. It's what you do now that matters. I've stopped questioning my fate because it stopped making sense. For someone who doesn't believe in fate, you ask a lot of questions, a lot of  _"what ifs"._  You told me you loved me too. Perhaps your words were spoken in grief or in guilt."

Sandor's gaze snapped up to meet her eyes as he felt his mouth dangle open. He meant to protest, but she cut off the words before they fully formed on his lips.

"It hurts to have one of the only things you know for certain anymore questioned and scrutinized," Sansa continued, undaunted and calm. "You can deny how you feel about me or ignore what I feel for you, but don't you ever tell me what I do and do not feel."

Momentarily stunned into silence, Sandor could only nod his head as he scrambled to find the words which had suddenly fled him.

"Everything I said, I meant," he intoned with an intensity he hoped might do some measure of justice to what stirred within him. " _Everything_ ," Sandor emphasized on a deep, grumbling breath.

"Then say it again," Sansa demanded quietly, as she searched his face for truth, it would seem.

"I love you," he spoke without hesitance or pause. "And that's all I know for sure anymore."

Twin tears, which had been dangling precariously in the corners of her eyes, now streamed down Sansa's cheeks.

"I love you too."

She had barely whispered the words before he caught them off her lips, pressing his mouth to hers in a soft kiss, which Sansa deepened as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Sandor responded much the same – pulling her closer to him and holding her there until the kiss slowed to a gradual stop.

With one arm still holding her against him, Sandor pulled away slightly as he brushed strands of hair away from her face and pressed his palm against her cheek.

"You said you don't belong here, that my men are turning on me because of you. That's not true, Sansa. It's not."

No sooner had he spoken the words than Sandor saw the desperation flood her countenance.

"I want to belong. I do," Sansa urged pleadingly.

Flour in her hair and on the apron wrapped tightly around her, Sandor knew she was trying to find a place where she belonged. Sandor felt himself go rigid, his muscles tensing and jaw setting firmly. Despite this, he pulled her closer to him, cradling her in his arms as he spoke low and deep, the words powerful and meant to be shared between her and him alone.

"You belong with me." He marked each word forcefully, his breathing now ragged and his eyes ablaze, no doubt, with intensity. "We belong together. That's where you belong. You don't belong  _here._ I don't think I belong here, either. We don't belong here. We don't. So don't go making yourself a part of this. You're too good for this shit. Do you understand me? I'll get us out of here. We just have to hold on a little longer. You and me..." Sandor paused to draw in a deep breath, his body shook now, and his heartbeat drummed loudly in his own ears. "We're it, little bird. It's you and me. We're it."

Sandor had mocked Sansa once for being prone to fantasy, for coloring the world in shades of impossible grace and beauty, for pinning her dreams on things that could not possibly exist to her standards. Sandor had wanted to make her see that the world was ugly and it was hard, that only the strong survive, and that that was especially true in  _his_ world – the underworld. Grace and beauty, Sansa was the embodiment of everything she wanted for herself. All she expected, then, was her equal – a man worthy of the fantasy. Somewhere along the line, she had slid down from the pedestal he had placed her on, coming to exist as his equal. In the end, that's all she ever wanted; not to be forced to settle for something less than what she deserved, but also not to be held high in some unreachable place, to exist alone while others claimed how unworthy they were of her. It was not right, though. He meant to reach her at the top, to be all that she deserved, to be  _her_ equal - not to have her sink to his level in order to reach him.

Sansa nodded and pressed a warm, sweet kiss to his lips. What she had initiated with delicacy, Sandor returned with a steady fervor – tongue brushing against hers, hands smoothing down her back as he pulled her onto his lap, where she came willingly. Gently, she rocked against him, timid all over again despite their morning activities. When she pulled away, Sansa averted her eyes downwards, her fingers tracing over his chest.

"Make me yours," she whispered.

With his brow furrowed, Sandor found himself befuddled over her words until understanding set in and illuminated it all – her apparent shyness, her inability to look him in the eye, the way she had begun to tremble slightly.

Wordlessly, he kissed her cheek before carefully removing her from his lap and standing up from the steps. Sansa followed suit, slowly pushing herself up to stand and nervously smoothing down the skirt of her apron. Sandor took her by the hand and led her inside, avoiding the kitchen and prying eyes where he could as they headed for the stairs.

The upstairs hall was blessedly empty as Sandor quietly led Sansa into the bedroom they shared and softly shut the door behind them. When he turned around, she was standing at the end of the bed, loosening the ties on her apron. Sandor took her hand once more, leading her to stand in front of the large, oversized mirror hung against the far wall. He settled behind her, his chest against her back and his eyes watching her through the mirror as he finished untying her apron, which dropped to the floor. Slipping the straps of her dress from off of her shoulders, Sandor traced his lips down the length of her neck before pressing kisses to her shoulder. Sandor watched her in the mirror once more as his fingers unzipped her dress, which joined her apron on the floor. Her lips had parted as she timidly met his eyes through the mirror, her chest rising and falling more rapidly than before and drawing his attention to the fullness of her breasts.

Unhooking her bra and pulling it free, Sandor dropped it to the floor, giving a satisfied smile when he found her nipples hard with arousal. With one hand, he gently kneaded her breast while the other hand slowly ran down her stomach and beneath the blue lace of her panties. He couldn't help the groan that escaped his lips as his finger slipped between her folds and found her soaked with wetness. Sinking further into him, Sansa's head rested against his back as soft moans sounded from her lips. With her eyes closed now, she could not see how intently he was watching her, taking in the sight of her writhing slightly against his touch, the way her face contorted in pleasure as he ran his thumb against her clit.

Gathering the willpower to pull away, Sandor led Sansa to the bed, where she carefully scooted to the center in slow movements and propped herself up on her elbows as she watched him remove his own clothing. As eagerly as he drank in the sight of her, Sansa did the same, licking her bottom lip as he pulled off his boxers to release the hard length of his cock. Following his lead, Sansa removed her own underwear and slowly spread her legs as he crawled onto the bed and settled on top of her. His lips sought out hers, his tongue slipping into her mouth and initiating a sensuous kiss, unhurried as his hands leisurely traced the shape of her curves.

Sansa was tense beneath him and shaking, although her mouth and hands were just as eagerly seeking him out. Moving down slightly and leaving a trail of kisses as he went, Sandor's tongue ran in slow, dawdling circles around her nipple, and his lips gave a gentle suck with each pass. His fingers worked between her legs in soft, teasing strokes, each touch rewarded with a shuddering sigh or a breathy moan. Sandor cherished those sounds, each one making him that much harder with want. When the tension in Sansa's body had been eased away, Sandor lowered himself further to replace the hand between her legs with his lips. His fingers smoothed over her thighs as he licked at the wetness gathered between her legs and savored her sweetness.

Gladly, he would do this all night - listening to her come undone over and over again, breathlessly moaning his name, legs trembling against his shoulders as he feasted on her. When the aching in his cock became too much to bear, Sandor lifted himself up, slightly panting as he settled between Sansa's legs.

"I want you," she murmured against his lips, pulling him against her as she wrapped her arms tightly around his shoulders. "Please," she added, as if he might deny her.

Sandor responded with an exhaled chuckle and a soft kiss before reaching towards the nightstand, pulling a condom from the drawer, and rolling it down his cock. Sitting up against the head board of the bed, Sandor gathered Sansa in his arms and guided her to straddle him.

"You set the pace," he instructed after pressing a kiss to her lips. "Go as fast or as slow as you want. We've got all night," he added with a smile, the thought exhilarating - to have this beautiful creature in his bed, to make her his, to take their time with one another.

Sansa nodded slowly and with some trepidation, eying the length of his cock with want and with fear. She gripped his shoulders, and he in turn settled his hands on her waist, his eyes matching hers as she bit her bottom lip. As she eased herself onto him and he slid ever so slightly into her, Sansa gave a wince and sucked in a sharp breath. Her eyes squeezed shut, and she stilled before slowly moving further down. He knew she would be tight, warm, and wet, but he hadn't quite anticipated just how good it felt and how badly he wanted to fuck her, to show her all the ways he could make her feel good. For now, though, they would take their time.

"Try to relax," Sandor murmured in her ear, his hands running down her back to help ease the tension she held in her body.

Once more, she responded with a nod and took a deep breath as she took him in ever so slightly deeper than before. When a low, reverberating moan escaped his lips, Sansa's eyes opened and she gave a smile, pained as it was. She continued easing down his length, stopping momentarily when the pain was too much, before rocking back up and back down to take him in deeper.

Gently, Sandor bucked his hips to meet her movements, panting moans pouring from his lips as he buried his face against her neck where he nipped and licked. The sensations rolled through his body, and it was the way in which he savored them that surprised him the most; he did not seek to go hard and fast until he reached his release. Instead, he rode each jolting wave of pleasure with anticipation and wonderment; that this act could feel  _this_ good and fulfilling, he hadn't expected. He shouldn't have expected any less with her.

With her movements increasing in frequency and assuredness, Sansa continued to rock her hips, easing herself up his length before gliding back down. With her head lolled back and her eyes softly closed, Sandor watched her intently, relishing the sight of her riding him. The pads of his thumbs brushed against her nipples as his hands settled against the dip of her waist to guide her movements. And when he realized he wanted her closer, Sandor pulled her against him, her chest pressed against his as his lips claimed hers in a slow and tender kiss.

Mouth occupied, Sansa hummed her pleasure softly, her legs trembling against his hips. With her wrapped securely in his arms, Sandor sat up and slowly eased Sansa down against the bed. With her hair fanned out beneath her, lips swollen from kissing, cheeks flushed and skin glistening with a sheen of sweat, Sandor marveled at her, shaking his head slightly as he murmured nonsensical words about how fucking beautiful she was.

He carefully slid in and out of her, and with each measured thrust, she seemed to release the tension in her limbs and freely offered her lips to him. Her fingers entwined with the strands of his hair, and the smooth expanse of her legs wrapped around his hips. Eventually, their rhythms had become syncopated, a give and take as he eased himself deeper into her and watched the pleasure on her face chase away any residual traces of pain.

_I cannot get close enough._

The thought came as he thrust into her with a roll of his hips. It was deep and slow, their hands clasped tightly together as they both trembled – she because never again could she give someone what was being gifted to him now, and he because she was the first and only to show him this depth of intimacy. The realization seemed to pass between them as he caught her eyes and gazed down at her, easing in and out of her in gentle movements. Later, he might say that it was the sensations of pure bliss coursing through him that separated this from all other instances of intimacy he had encountered in his life - the sheer delight at being joined to her in this way, their hearts beating like mad in their chests, which heaved for breaths between ragged pants and a duet of moans. It was something else though, something he knew that he would never know again, not with any others, only with her. She seemed to sense it, as well, as she cupped his cheek with tears pearling her eyes, but not for pain.

As much as he wanted her lips – sweet, soft, trembling as they were – he couldn't take his eyes away from her now. He watched her in wonder, and she stared back at him; they venerated each other in this way.

_I cannot get close enough._

He pulled her closer to him, and she responded by wrapping her arms around him tightly, as if the thought had occurred to her, too, and at the same instant. Their fingers, still interlaced, gripped tighter, and his lips sought hers out with a hunger that was returned instantaneously. Their bodies pressed together at every possible point – her legs wrapping tighter around his hips, his arm pulling her as close to him as he could. They quivered and quaked against one another. Confessions of love came in whispers to one another, gentle smiles and eager lips.

Losing himself in the pure pleasure coursing through him, Sandor's movements became faster, his body tensed, and each breath was a panting groan interspersed with expletives as Sandor's release came with near blinding intensity. He buried his face against Sansa's neck to dampen the reverberating sound of his moans, for all the good it did.

Eyes closed and his limbs feeling limp, Sandor slowly rolled off of Sansa, collapsing next to her on the bed as he caught his breath. When he felt her tuck herself against his side, her cheek pressed against his chest, Sandor curled his arm around her shoulders, his other hand resting heavily on her hip. After many quiet moments, he felt his breaths come even and his heart slow to a normal pace, no longer pounding in his own ears.

"Are you alright?" he asked on a husky voice, his hand brushing against Sansa's cheek.

"Yes," she responded softly with a nod of the head. "Sore, but yes." Sandor knew she was lost in thought as her fingers traced circles over his chest. "Are you?" she finally asked, lifting her eyes to him.

"Sore? No, not sore," he responded smugly, chuckling as Sansa swatted his arm playfully before propping herself up on one elbow to look at him. Her hair was a mess, and she was flushed red, but she was gorgeous, a goddess in his own bed.

"No, silly. I meant, are you alright? How do you feel?"

When she spoke, Sandor saw the uncertainty in her eyes, the way she wondered, now, if this changed anything between them, if she should fear that he might love her any less.

He stared at her, and his answer came in the quiet confines of his own mind, the silent words freely forming and coming in a deluge.

 _How do I feel? I feel that when I look at you, I see myself reflected back. Not how I was, but how I am meant to be, the shape I must take, the path I must choose. How do I feel? I feel that with you next to me, there is no fear of the unknown, no hesitance at what I am meant to do. Of all the faces and names of others I have known before_ _-_ _the people who come in and out of my life_ _-_ _you are the only one I see. And when I look at you, you see me too – not who I was before, but how I am meant to be, the shape I must take, the path I must choose. You show me, and I see. You reflect it back to me, and I see now in a way I couldn't before._

_'There will come another. And you will love her mor.,'_

Pain and anger had taunted him only hours was a call for retreat and to seek his equal in the loathsome depths he existed in before.

He would deny this call, though, because love was easy too, he now realized. It seemed to exist without prompt. It moved outward, dislodging pain and anger as it went. He loved her without boundaries or reason, and that was not something that could be buried in some dusty corner of his life to be easily ignored and to have its existence denied. Where anger raged and pain dwelled heavily, love was quiet, and it was still. It was constant, yet it yielded. It superseded all else, yet it did not consume selfishly. It wanted for others before it wanted for itself, and Sandor had never known that sort of purity before.

"How do I feel?" Sandor repeated back to Sansa. "That there will never be another for me. That I couldn't love anyone more if I tried."

With that, he cast out his doubts and hers.

"Don't try, then," Sansa replied, resting her head against the pillow and matching Sandor's eyes as he turned to face her.

"I won't," he vowed sincerely, taking her hand in his and kissing her fingers, each one in turn. "It's you and me."

Sansa smiled at that, exhaling a laugh as if she found some secret humor in his words. With her hand resting against his cheek, she pressed her forehead against his.

"Me and you," he heard her say.

* * *

_Mafia dictionary_

**Forbidden Fruit:** As Nina described, these are girls who are typically of Italian descent and either have male family members in the mafia or grow up in a mafia "neighborhood".  They're good Italian girls that the men typically pursue as wives or serious girlfriends.  These women are usually not goomah material. 

 **Young Turks:** Young, inexperienced made men. 

 **Ice:** To murder someone.

_Song List_

**Ch. 15**

"How" The Neighbourhood

"Bad Blood" Bastille

"Flawless" The Neighbourhood

"Wicked Games" The Weekend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I have to say I was so touched by all the wonderful feedback I received on the last chapter (Sandor's path forward, the dreaded funeral and, of course, the SanSan reunion). 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your continued support of this fic. I am always floored and flabbergasted by all the love I receive. It truly means the world to me so thank you times a million from the bottom of my heart!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: 
> 
> Language, sexual content, and precisely one racial slur. Read with discretion as always.

**Gods and Monsters**

Chapter 16

* * *

The end of August came and went. The days went tumbling by, one right after the next. A somersault and catapult past weeks' worth of time, devoid of anything of consequence. Long days, hot nights, up again in the morning, and chasing down the sun with mindless indulgences until twilight remerged with joyless acknowledgement. It was in his eyes and with cautionary glances that Sandor seemed to warn her to cherish these days of ennui's affliction. Uncomfortable though it may be, the alternative was worse and threatening in a way that every soul beneath Mortiarti's roof seemed to understand.  _Dying of boredom is hardly the fate we should fear,_ Sansa reminded herself.

More nights, more days, and eventually the calendar eased past milestones from Sansa's past life: those peculiar memories of when summers were sleepy and quaintly happy and restlessness was quelled with the awareness of its eventual and rather tangible passing. Vaguely, she'd remember as she caught a fleeting glance of the calendar. Expelled from the hoard of suppressed memories, September the third held some intuitive significance, and with it, an uncontrollable sense of deprivation. It was the day Sansa was supposed to start classes at the University of Oregon, she seemed to remember.

She stared at the calendar, recalling the meticulous plans her father had drafted to move Sansa into her dorm room. They had been discussed at length, mutual undertones of bubbling excitement and pained trepidation coming from all. They had meant to caravan down to Eugene - her father in the SUV stuffed full of her belongings and she and her mother together in Sansa's car, the last chance at mother-daughter bonding before the only child, the pride and joy of the family, started college.

Locking herself in the bathroom, Sansa cried salty, bitter tears on that day. She watched as her dreams slipped like sand through her fingers. She could cling to mere grains, miniscule relics of all that she had planned and all that she had hoped for. In the end, it wouldn't be worth it. It was best to let go.  _Throw it to the wind and watch it fly, little bird._ And so she did.

Weeks later, she had bounded into the room she and Sandor shared, hurrying towards the shower after spending the morning dipping in and out of the pool during the last days of what had shaped up to be an Indian summer. In the periphery of her vision, she caught a glimpse of a striped bundle placed carefully on the center of the bed, the colors of which melded into a vibrant blue as she whizzed past. An oddity in the surroundings which had become familiar, Sansa turned to find that it was a sweater, folded neatly and with a peculiar amount of care.

The white dress she wore the night of the Royce party had been long ago discarded, a mess of blood stains and horrific memories, hardly worth salvaging. Podrick's sweater had vanished along with the white dress, and she did not care in those days, so long ago, to inquire after its whereabouts. She did not know who placed it on the bed or how anyone but her remembered that it somehow belonged to her by proxy. After all, who but her even remembered the poor boy who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and with the wrong girl, ultimately sacrificing his life for such petty missteps?

When she clutched the sweater to her chest, it smelled of laundry detergent and fabric softener. She cried, then, as she buried her nose in the fabric. It scratched against her skin, itching as tears burned in her eyes. Collapsing to the floor, she wept for him, but not because he was gone, per se. Sansa cried because she had forgotten. Once more, she had somehow forgotten to remember the way he smelled, and that memory, expunged from her ever-shrinking cache of past-life recollections, could never be returned to her. When it was gone, it left for good, yet another vanishing artifact whose absence was profoundly and devastatingly felt.

On the last day of September, Sansa awoke at dawn with an acute awareness of a dull pain in her chest. This particular day she had not forgotten, and its memory had not been suppressed. Instead, it existed permanently outside of blatant consciousness, and yet it held a sort of omnipresence that persisted through the mundane and extraordinary alike. The last day of September was her mother's birthday.

The grief barreled through her and rendered Sansa utterly useless on that day, the very last day of September: the day in which a cold snap broke through the Indian Summer and the Italian mothers threw open the windows of the mansion, rejoicing at the coming of autumn. It was a small morsel of happiness everyone seemed to savor - all but her. She faked her smiles as best she could, and when tears began to roll down her cheeks, she sought out her refuge away from the others. She cursed beneath her breath with every turn because it seemed there was nowhere for her to be alone. Every corner of the mansion was occupied with some other face she only fleetingly recognized, some other poor soul seeking their own sliver of sanctuary in what was otherwise a complete and utter cluster fuck of rising tensions.

Even her music room was no longer her own, the floor covered over with sleeping bags, blankets, and other necessary essentials for what was supposed to be a temporary stay. Once more, her only option was to lock herself in the bathroom. She lay down on the tiles and paid no mind to how cold they were. Her skin was hot and sticky, and she pressed the heels of her hands hard against her eyes. When the tears came, they came uninhibited, and she cared not for modesty in that moment. She cried harder than she had in months until she was nearly suffocating for each breath.

She shared with Sandor nearly everything. They shared meals, they shared a bed, and late at night, facing one another in the darkness, they shared their fears and doubts, hopes and dreams, resentments and worries. They bled themselves dry those nights until there was nothing left to say. Sansa would have to shut her eyes to bare her soul. In the all-consuming darkness, she found an unearthly silence, and she would speak from the depths of herself she did not quite know existed. She knew not how long she spoke, and come morning, only scarcely remembered all she had said, but when she opened her eyes, he was always staring back at her. Only once did she find him with his eyes placidly shut, and she thought he had drifted to sleep. She kissed his cheeks, each in turn, and nestled against his side. She closed her eyes once more, but he spoke then.  _'You're all I have left,'_ he muttered quietly.

They shared everything, but she did not share with him these tears. They were her own and were ushered forth by recollections of her existence before him. There was a part of herself she was hiding from him − the part that still ached, the part that was screaming from inside of her that this was all wrong, the part that she endlessly tried to reconcile with her new place in his world. Oil and water, the two did not mix. No matter how hard she tried, they would separate once more. She could not be the Moriarti darling, the boss' girl, a stand-up gal, while circling the days on the calendar which meant something to a girl who did not exist here. She had put her former self on the shelf and stole away where she could to don the features of that girl once more. Where before it had seemed innocent, it now felt like an adulterous impulse. The obligatory guilt emerged as he muttered on the precipice of slumber those words.  _'You're all I have left.'_

On that last day of September, her cries eventually lulled to a quiet, no longer echoing off the bathroom walls, her tears had dried up, and Sansa reassembled herself once more. She smoothed down her skirt and brushed out her hair. She wiped the mascara from beneath her eyes and reapplied powder to her nose, every piece of the boss' girl put back in place and those hidden heartbreaks stowed away once more. But when she exited the bathroom, Sandor was standing outside the door, a pained expression on his face and his hands stuffed in his pockets.

He asked what was wrong, and she denied him the truth. It cut him, she saw. He did not say, but his eyes bore the truth, and she knew it stung. He asked again, and she simply looked away. She could not see, but somehow she knew it was hurting him.  _She_  was hurting him.

He begged her, and anger was her answer.  _I'm back together again,_ she effectually screamed inside herself.  _Your darling, your Queen. No one will have to know, not even you. So what more do you want from me?_

She had tried to push past him, but one arm – strong, muscled, powerful – stopped her, wrapping tightly around her middle. She demanded he let her go, pounded against his chest, fought tooth and nail to preserve this one secret, this part of herself she felt slipping away. It was this and only this she wished to cling to, not to be tossed to the wind in resignation. She fought, and he held her more tightly against him, for he too had things to which he'd cling, things he refused to let go. Even to remember, it was a haze, but all she knew was that it ended much like it began. Her body writhed as she sobbed but not alone on a cold tile floor. In his arms, she cried, and he somehow understood. He had woven together a tapestry of all those midnight secrets and knew what was missing, the parts withheld.

On the bedroom floor and in the warmth of his arms, Sandor rocked her and kissed away the tears, his lips trembling. He did not speak, and neither did she. She clung to him, and he clung to her. They were all the other had left, her and him. It was a strange and troubling adaption of their shared mantra, "It's you and me" _._ Foreboding and bittersweet, it seemed to be more of an epitaph than anything else, heavy with a promise of regret and sorrow. It scared her, and although he said nothing, she knew it scared him too.

Minutes and hours, days and weeks. They all passed, and they saw to it that she dried her tears and carried on. Time rendered everything insignificant. It rolled past tragedy and triumph alike, not stopping to mourn the former or savor the latter. The days came and went, growing ever so slightly shorter with each. It was the middle of October now, and the way in which the wind moved through the trees and over the sun-baked earth had changed too – stronger and colder.

The days passed, and the Moriarti mansion was teeming with restlessness. Tempers were short and words cutting between all who had been forced to reside in such close living quarters, entire existences interrupted so that they resided in some bubble of an alternate reality. However, this was their reality – danger in real time and tragedy gathering on the cold horizon.

As a token of privacy, something thatwas becoming a luxury around the mansion, Sansa and Sandor shared their meals alone at a small table that had been moved onto the balcony outside their bedroom. Both of them adhered to their respective sense of duty. Sandor maintained morale amongst his men the best he could. He continued with business as usual, whatever that meant. Sansa did not bother to ask but instead, resumed her duties in the kitchen, minded after some of the children, and chatted with Nina in the afternoons over tea. She and Sandor spent the evenings together, sometimes alone and other times playing cards with Disco and Nina or some of the other couples. They had achieved an unsteady sense of normalcy but remained perpetually aware that it wasn't meant to last this way, nor should it.

Sansa's eyes blinked lazily as she rested her chin in her hands, watching from across the table as Sandor ate a meager breakfast. Much like his patience, Sandor's appetite had waned in the past week. Waiting was taking its toll on him, on all of them, but him especially. He was a man of movement and motion, his life built upon the principles of action and all that it brought with it – progress, change, a sense of direction.

Sansa wrapped her arms around her middle, burrowing into the warmth of her sweater as the wind picked up from the north. Hardship and heartache, nothing good came from winds of the north.

The muffin on her plate was picked apart, a thorough wreck. She had scavenged out the walnuts and found that she couldn't stomach the rest of it. Not today. Although she did not ask many questions, Sansa knew that today was important. No, more than that. It was the fulcrum on which everything seemed to dangle precariously. Sandor was to have a meeting today with a very important man. It had been months since he had reached out to this man, a leader in another organization by the sounds of it, and for those months there was no response.

Every so often, a tap would come at their bedroom door during odd hours. On the other side of the door, an apologetic capo, usually AWOL, would inform Sandor he had a phone call. Gathering his reserve, Sandor would curtly nod, excuse himself from Sansa's presence, and exit the room. Each time he returned, he bore the heaviness of disappointment. When she'd ask if it was the man, he would solemnly shake his head, and their evening would proceed from there in relative silence. She knew not to push it and found it was best to let him withdraw into a brooding sense of quietude.

The last time the knocks had come at their door, Sansa had been riding towards her climax. Head thrown back as she cried out in ecstasy, she was so very close to the delicious release she'd been fantasizing about all that day. By the way Sandor had been gripping her hips and biting his bottom lip in a futile effort to dull the sound of his own moans, she knew he was right there with her. They ignored the first knock at the door; she had barely heard it. Instead, her attentions were undividedly focused on all the things Sandor liked to whisper in her ear as she neared her peak. Equal parts dirty and sweet, they seemed to resonate at her core, they made her body buzz, her legs grow weak around his hips, and the sweetness of release that much more tantalizing and satisfying.

When the second knock came, Sandor matched her eyes with a fervent desperation and demanded that she didn't stop, nearly begging her as he repeatedly murmured how close he was. Agreeing with a coquettish smile, Sansa rode him harder and faster, losing all sense of their surroundings as a third and more insistent knock came at the door.

Whispers of dirty sweet nothings in her ear had been replaced with dangerous declarations.

"I'm going to fucking kill him," he had groaned, breathless and stilling Sansa's movements by holding her tight to his chest. "I swear to god, I'm going to murder him in his sleep if he knocks on that door one more time."

And with that came another knock and AWOL's voice from the other side of the door, insisting that it was of vital importance that he put his current activities on hold and take a very important phone call from a very important man.

Apologizing profusely and promising to make it up to her later, Sandor rained down kisses on her lips, neck, and shoulders before haphazardly throwing on a pair of pants and waiting until Sansa tucked the bed sheets under her chin to cover herself.

"God dammit, AWOL, this better be the real fucking deal," Sansa had heard Sandor growl as he slipped out the door of their room. He returned many hours later, in the middle of the night, waking her as he crawled into bed and pulled her still-naked form into his arms. If he had meant to sleep, those plans were swiftly foiled as his hand idled up her leg, over the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the swell of her breast, eventually sliding between her legs. A man of his word, Sandor made good on his promise that night and in the morning too.

That had been a week ago, and over the course of the past week, Sandor had traversed temporary heights of elation at finally moving forward with his plans before sinking towards near-crippling frustration and doubts. Despite solidifying a date and time for the meeting, Sandor remained cautious, agonizing over every possible turn of events that might take place and planning accordingly. When Sansa had merely suggested that sometimes our best laid plans can go awry and it was best not to fret over events that hadn't happened yet, Sandor had descended into another fit of silence, which had slowly come to replace his penchant for anger. No long as quick tempered as he used to be, he was now prone to bouts of utter wordlessness. It felt as if the distance between them was immeasurable during these times. She could reach out and touch him, and yet he was hardly present, a thousand miles away in his own body. He was, in turns, generous and warm, fickle and withdrawn.

It seemed today, Sansa had taken on the burden of reticence. She had barely touched her breakfast, and despite mindlessly scanning the horizon beyond the balcony, she knew Sandor was watching her, considering her with curious eyes. There were many things for him to ponder over this day, things that required his full attention, and yet he was staring at her, musing over one thing or another.

"What's on your mind?" she heard him finally ask.

It wasn't often that he asked this question. He was of the mind that others should be like him. If something needed to be said, there was no conceivable reason not to just come out and say it. What use were allusions and suggestions? When he did inquire over her thoughts, she knew it was because he was avoiding his own.

"Time," was all she said. Time, much like Sandor, had become a fickle thing.

"What about it?"

"I wish it would stop," Sansa responded quietly but without hesitation.

Her eyes settled on him from across the table. The locks of his hair, black as soot and glossy in the sunlight, were lifted on the breeze. He sat shirtless, the chair in which he was sitting too small for his frame. It had only occurred to her in miniscule moments of revelation that there might be any danger involved in this meeting he was to have. Beyond that, those moments only functioned to explain away the growing sense of foreboding she felt accumulating in every corner of their existence together. Fearful of manifesting that which was spoken, Sansa never confessed her worries but would instead search his eyes for reassurance, agonize over his words in an effort to divine some unspoken comfort there. When she matched his eyes, though, all she could place was wanting: a wanting for closeness, for solitude, for resolution. He was a complicated man comprised of complicated desires, she now knew.

"I think you're the only person here who wishes that," Sandor remarked plainly. "You don't wish you could make time go backwards? Maybe things might be different if time went backwards."

Sansa offered him a weak smile. It was Mirabelle he was speaking of. He never said her name anymore. Instead, he talked in circles around his sister's memory, allusions and suggestions, irony in the finest and most tragic sense of the word, and yet Sansa knew why he did it. It would break his heart all over again to talk of Mirabelle in any real way. He merely gave vague suggestions and relied on others to understand. And everyone did.

"Everyone here is wishing time away," Sansa replied. "I used to do that. You'll wish your entire life away, piece by piece, before you know it. Before the Royce party, I kept wishing that my last semester of high school would end so I could get on with my life, that I could go off to college and finally have some freedom away from my parents. Had I known what was coming, I wouldn't have done that. I would have wished for time to stop, to slow down, to not move so fast."

Although she didn't quite expect an answer, Sandor seemed at a loss. His mouth opened as if he meant to say something, but instead, he shrugged his shoulders in obvious resignation. There was nothing to be said, it seemed.

"You miss your family. You miss your home. You miss your old life," he observed, matter-of-factly, as cold and troubling as the northern wind.

He was well aware of her struggle to resolve the parts of herself that now seemed so perpetually at odds. Never before, though, had he vocalized all that she could not manage to say for herself. Sansa reached across the table and gently placed her hand on top of his.

"Nina goes to school," she offered carefully. "She goes to the University of Nevada in Las Vegas. She wants to be a nurse."

His eyes settled on her before narrowing. He chewed his lip as he studied her face. Her heart was racing as she found herself on the receiving end of his scrutiny. Flustered, Sansa continued.

"I could do that. I could still go to school and do the things I wanted to do. You could still run things here. Or…even your place in California. Eugene isn't that far from there. I could…I mean, I'd still have my scholarships."

Her words were uncertain, and if she meant to convince him of anything, certainly he wasn't receptive to it. Pulling in a deep breath, Sandor closed his eyes. His other hand lifted, and he squeezed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

"Nothing would change between us," Sansa insisted feebly. "It would all work out."

Inexplicably, she found herself grasping at straws, pleading a case she wasn't entirely certain of herself. If his silence was frustrating, surely the mirthless, bitter laugh spilling from his lips was infuriating. Pulling his hand free, Sandor pressed his palms to his face, his laughter now a muffled huff. He grew quiet before running his fingers through his hair.

"It would all work out," he repeated with a shake of his head and on a dark chuckle.

"Don't laugh at me," Sansa fumed, equal measures hurt and angry. "My first night, you told me I had better learn how things work around here. And that's what I'm doing. Trying to make things work."

She pushed herself from the table, throwing her napkin to the plate and flinging the French door to their bedroom open. Whatever resolve she had maintained until then suddenly vanished as she realized there was nowhere to go. She couldn't even storm out on him properly. Frustrated, Sansa sat on the edge of the bed, arms crossed tightly over her chest and with her back to the balcony door. It felt as if an entire eternity had passed, the whole history of time itself, before she heard as Sandor slowly retreated inside.

He said nothing as he made his way towards the bathroom. He left her in silence as he turned on the shower and shut the bathroom door behind him. Another eternity passed, and Sansa crawled beneath the heavy blankets of the bed in hopes of finding some comfort there. Eventually, Sandor emerged from the shower, towel-dried the long locks of his hair, and dressed himself in a finely tailored suit, one befitting the nature of this long-awaited meeting.

He spoke not a word nor offered her a passing glance, save through the mirror of his dresser when he thought she wasn't looking. She would catch his eyes and look away. She wondered if he would leave her this way – in silence and with no resolution. The thought beckoned forth the emergence of tears. She fought them in earnest, quickly swiping at them before they fell over her cheeks. Her movement must have roused his attention. When he looked at her, she averted her eyes to her lap, suddenly interested in her hands, which were resting there. In the periphery of her vision, she saw him slowly approach the edge of the bed nearest to her, each step seeming more measured and careful than the last. It seemed an odd thing to her, for him to take so much care in his movements and even his manner of dress for the day yet be so thoughtless in how he regarded her.

"I'll be back sometime tonight," he tepidly informed. "I don't know exactly when, so don't wait for me to eat dinner, and don't wait up either."

Sansa offered nothing more than a nod and did not meet his stare. When he didn't leave, she wondered if he was testing her, waiting for her to look at him, speak to him, offer him something more. She remained entirely still, mindlessly tracing the lines of her palm with one finger. She expected him to grow angry with her or leave her in silence as he was now apt to do. Instead, Sandor leaned over, pressing a delicate kiss to her forehead, before leaving the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.

* * *

AWOL was up with the sun, disentangling himself from the slender arms of the brunette laying naked next to him. Her name was Brigitta and her story more or less unknown to him. After hopping in the shower, he had expected to find her gone although there wasn't really anywhere for her to go. At the very least, she should have meandered off with the other broads. Mattress girls, he called them.

These were temporary goomahs, girls who went to the mattresses with the men who didn't have any others to call their own. When war was over and the dust settled, most of these chicks would be gone, having gotten a taste of the life and finding it bitter on their tongues. Some would stick around for awhile and a rare few would become permanent goomahs. The mattress girls did not mingle with the wives or girlfriends. They stuck together, some even rotating through the beds of multiple made men and capos.

His mattress girl knew his personal code of ethics when it came to women. It was as simple as it was straightforward; he never laid a hand on them, always used a condom, and never allowed himself to get attached. The unfortunate turn in events unfolding over the past few months had, however, worked in her favor. He owed her some measure of protection. She was his one and only here. The only girl to grace his bed, the only one who would worry after him when he left, the only one to welcome him back with wanting arms should he return. It stifled him, yes, but the alarming truth was it reassured him as well.

"Get up," AWOL demanded, kicking the side of the air mattress on which they slept. It jiggled like a bowl of jello and the brunette merely cracked her eyes open to glare at him. "I've got to make the bed," he said.

Old habits die hard. This he knew. It comforted him like an old friend. The army tore him down only to build him back up again, enforcing practices that never quite left him.

"What time is it?" The woman's voice was raspy with sleep and one-too-many packs of Marlboro Reds. She smoked the same brand of cigarettes as him and that had been enough motivation for him to pick her up at some seedy biker bar a few months ago.

"Time for me to make the goddamn bed and time for you to get up. I've got shit to do today."

He was pulling the sheets out from underneath her even as she rolled off the bed, fumbling around for her clothes, still half asleep. She wasn't a keeper, that he knew for damn sure and she knew it too. What he didn't quite know was the full nature of the mutual obligation they felt towards one another. Perhaps they were indeed both lonely and each sufficed at quelling the indelible need of comfort and compassion in such trying times.

With a mumbled farewell, AWOL left the girl to her own devices as he slipped away to the kitchen. It was there he found Bicycle Pete rambling on about one thing or another over breakfast, laughing goofily through slightly crooked front teeth. Pete was an eccentric character. He hailed from South Dakota, left home for LA at a young age before involving himself in lesser street gangs. Too smart for the low-lives he'd been hanging around with, he eventually filtered out of the street scum. It was then that he made the acquaintance of Vinny who was immediately taken with Pete's quirky charisma which masked a criminal genius. Like all the others, AWOL had come to regard Pete as his blood, but the bond they shared was unique. Of all the capos, they worked together the closest. Pete had eventually taken over LA territory when SoCal became too much for AWOL to handle all alone.

In the beginning, their working relationship was rife with mutual distrust and palpable discontent. AWOL was wary of him and spent a good majority of Pete's first few years as capo busting his balls every chance he got. A slow thaw commenced as Pete proved his merit over time. Eventually, they found themselves regularly sharing drinks at dive bars when AWOL passed through LA. In a whiskey-induced haze, swaying on their bar stools with shit-eating grins on their faces, they had once breached the topic of blood oaths and brotherhood.

"Blood of the covenant is thicker than water of the womb," Pete had slurred, his eyes half closed as he struggled to focus his gaze on AWOL.

"What the fuck does that shit mean?" AWOL had snorted in reply, bleary eyed and nearly falling to the floor. Even now, so many years later and with stark sobriety, he remembered the sudden sense of sincerity Pete seemed to regard him with as he spoke.

"People get it wrong." He had stank of whiskey and cigarettes, breathing heavily in the close space between them and hands gripping AWOL's shoulders as if his life depended on it. "They say, ' _blood is thicker than water._ ' Nah. They got it all wrong. It means I choose you as my brother so our bond is deeper than blood, you see. Because I made that choice, all of us made that choice. We choose to be brothers and so we are. I choose you, Sam. I choose you as my brother."

It was the only time Pete had ever used AWOL's given name. Before and since, it was the only time. Without another word, Pete had stumbled from the bar stool and spent the next two hours in front of a Dolly Parton pinball machine tucked in the back of the bar, methodically working towards beating the highest score. AWOL never forgot those words, even the next morning when he found himself puking his guts out in Pete's toilet.

Pete also had a brotherly affinity for Zulu, one which was decidedly protective. The kid had been Pete's soldier once and was likely to be his soldier again with Vinny out of the picture. At the kitchen counter, it was Zulu who was seated next to Pete, silent as he chomped on an English muffin and listened to Pete yammer on nonsensically. His nose had healed up nicely and only a faint scar remained where the gash above his right eye had once been. On the outside, Zulu was put to rights. It was his future in the organization (or worse, outside of it) that had some, Pete included, worried.

Zulu was not only a point of contention between AWOL and Pete; the boy inspired a divide amongst all of the capos. AWOL and some of the others were of the mind that Zulu had broken a sacred vow, a blood oath all of them had, at one point or another, taken. In doing so, he had demonstrated his disloyalty to the organization. With war on their doorstep, they couldn't afford to question loyalty at time like this. The rest of the capos, Pete chief amongst them, viewed Zulu's transgression as a misstep from a kid who was still learning his place, a kid bound to make mistakes, but willing to learn from them.

"You coming today?" AWOL's question was brusque and accompanied with a curt nod of his head towards Zulu who only lowered his eyes in response. This manner of subservience infuriated AWOL although he knew not why. Perhaps it was the way in which Zulu refused to look him in the goddamn eyes when he spoke, to offer that simple sign of respect.  _'Never trust a man who cannot look you in the eye. Shifty eyes, shifty motives.'_  It was the last and perhaps only meaningful advice AWOL's father had ever given him before he bailed on the family.

"If he'll let me," the kid shrugged, uncertain.

AWOL nodded his head silently in response. Zulu had avoided Clegane for the past few months with ease. The kid set himself up in a remote spot in the house, never venturing very far unless he absolutely had to. AWOL hadn't expected him to consider coming along for their mission today. It was nearly inconceivable that Sandor would even let him.

"Cheer up, little buddy," Pete reassured, clapping Zulu on the back in some show of comfort.

 _The kid's no brother of mine_ , AWOL thought bitterly. He snatched up an apple although he didn't quite like their taste and made his way towards the front door, but not before cutting an irritated glance towards Pete. The man did not notice and AWOL found himself doubly perturbed by this.

He sat outside on the front steps and watched as two made men arranged cars, four in total, around the half-circle drive. To his right, birds picked at dust in the dead grass. He watched them too, amused by their dogged determination which was all for naught. The earth sustained nothing here. Not a goddamn thing. When he finished his apple, he chucked the core to the birds and chained smoked his way through three cigarettes to pass the time. Half way through his last cigarette, a black car pulled up the front drive. When it rolled to an eventual stop, the back passenger door opened and a long, shapely leg emerged before a blonde lifted herself out of the vehicle. The driver made quick work of her bags from the trunk and the woman stuffed a stack of bills in his hand in return.

Red lips framing a sultry smile, AWOL knew this woman. He remembered seeing her at Thomas' funeral. The event had been a Mecca for skanks. However, this one in particular was at Mirabelle's visitation as well, now that he thought about it. She was persistent in a way the other would-be goomahs were not. She perpetually inserted herself in situations which put her closer to Clegane. This woman had her eye on the prize and, for a time, had succeeded in her mission of bagging the boss of the Moriarti. Unfortunately, the boss' taste in women had changed, upended since the Stark girl came along. AWOL remembered now that this was the same woman who had been making the rounds since Clegane kicked her bony ass to the curb. From behind him, the front door opened and Big Johnny emerged.

"You hittin' that?" AWOL prodded as he motioned his head towards the woman. The big man looming above laughed through a devious grin, eyes glistening with delight.

"She's a good woman," was all Johnny said before bounding off towards the blonde.

"Good at sucking dick," AWOL mumbled to himself with a chuckle.

This one wasn't content to be a mattress girl. By the way she seemed more annoyed than pleased as Johnny snatched her up in a bear hug and crushed her against his chest, AWOL imagined the big man was merely a means to an end.  _Poor fucking bastard. This bitch is going to rip his heart out and eat it for breakfast tomorrow._

As AWOL put out his cigarette, the front door opened once more and Disco appeared with Pete following close behind. Clegane had called an emergency meeting late one night last week and it was there that they all agreed on who would be in attendance for today's outing. AWOL, Pete, Johnny, and Disco were chosen and they each selected two of the best soldiers from their crew to come along. The other half of the capos would stay behind. In total, they were fourteen men strong today, including Bronn and Clegane.

AWOL stood, greeting Disco with a nod of the head as he brushed off cigarette ash from his pants. Moments later, the selected soldiers began to appear one-by-one, each sporting a toughened scowl as they gathered by the vehicles, waiting patiently for directions. They seemed to unwittingly aligned in rows and did not speak to one another, so lost in their thoughts, they were. It was not for a lack of brotherly affection, but rather the unanimous understanding of how important and dangerous their task for the day was. They were the best of the made men, some of them future capos.

When their eyes collectively shifted in the same direction and mumbles emerged from their lips, AWOL followed their solemn stares to the sight of Bronn circling around from the side of the house.

Each step the man took was labored, dawdling and awkward. His ankles seemed to roll and his knees buckled as gravity beckoned him to go tumbling face first into the dirt. His shirt was wrinkled, unbuttoned at the top and untucked on one side. Despite a pair of sunglasses covering his eyes, he looked beat to hell, exhausted, face gaunt with lack of sleep and proper nourishment.

The murmuring began, sounding faintly like a hum traveling between adjacent men as Bronn passed. If he noticed, he didn't let on. Perhaps it was pride, but AWOL doubted it. In an instant, the whispers abruptly ceased and everything was rendered eerily silent. No longer squawking and fighting over his discarded apple core, even the birds themselves grew still as if to listen. The broad had quieted her annoying giggles as she clutched Johnny's arm.

From behind him, AWOL felt the undeniably heavy presence he knew only to associate with Sandor Clegane. Only now, the hair on his arms stood on end and the muscles in his went body rigid. The man had instantaneously inspired cold fear in the men as he emerged from the house. Where Bronn's steps were sloppy and shuffled, Sandor's were measured and self-assured. There was pride and determination in his gait.

Sandor stopped at the top of the steps. He loomed over Disco to his right and AWOL to his left as he wordlessly scrutinized each and every one of his men. His eyes hovered on Johnny and narrowed when he caught sight of the blonde woman.

"What the fuck is she doing here?" Clegane seethed beneath his breath. Disco shrugged his shoulders and shook his head in response, at a loss for an explanation. AWOL offered no better when Clegane looked to him for some kind of answer.

"Get her out of here.  _Now._  I don't give a fuck where she ends up, but she's not staying here."

When Disco hurried down the steps and pulled Johnny aside to relay the message, Sandor's eyes settled back on the men. Zulu was standing silent and unmoving amongst them. He did not cower nor did he melt away behind one of the other men to go unnoticed for a time. While AWOL could begrudgingly respect the boy for this, Sandor would likely be a different story. The change in his demeanor was as instantaneous as it was glaringly obvious; his jaw line had sharpened with tension, as if he were grinding his teeth together hard, and his eyes, while focusing intently on Zulu, seemed to lose all stoicism in favor of fiery fervor.

Whatever side show was going on between Disco and Johnny was soon forgotten as Clegane made his way down the steps. His pace was slow and deliberate in a way which seemed to painfully test his patience. He likely wanted to barrel down the steps towards the boy, rushing towards the source of this dangerous fixation that had suddenly come over him.

This wasn't just about the girl and AWOL knew that well enough. This was about betrayal. This was about a man who so rarely put his faith in others, that to have that faith thrown back in his face was to surely rip his heart in two. Sandor Clegane never talked fondly of brotherhood like Pete did. After all, his own brother was a monster so why should brotherhood, by blood or by choice, mean anything to him? However, AWOL wasn't foolish enough to believe that Clegane did not regard these men and this organization as the only thing he had left to call his own. It was an unspoken and sadly unfulfilled affinity Clegane and Zulu had had for one another. Each seemed to see themselves in the other man - what the past had been and what the future might hold. Sandor had seen potential in the boy from the start, although he rarely ever admitted it, and Zulu had found himself a man worth looking up to. Truth be told, it was an utter shame.

The men to Zulu's left and right instinctively moved away from him until the kid was left standing alone as Clegane approached. Remarkably, the boy did not flinch, not even when Sandor was toe-to-toe with him although AWOL could decipher the emergence of fear in Zulu's eyes. It was enough to spur Clegane on further and fresh terror came as Sandor's hand clamped down hard on Zulu's chin. The boy writhed in pain and when Sandor turned the kid's head to the side, AWOL momentarily thought he meant to snap Zulu's neck. Instead, Sandor studied the way in which the boy's wounds had healed. His parting gift was now just a few faint scars on an otherwise unmarred face. Clegane shoved the boy hard against the car and turned to look at Bronn who was leaning against another vehicle. The sound of the man's wheezing breaths had been enough to rouse Sandor's attention.

"Been chasing the worm?" Clegane rasped, snatching Bronn's sunglasses off of his face and tossing them to the ground.

Deep circles were etched beneath Bronn's eyes which were rimmed in red. It occurred to AWOL then that the only thing it looked like Bronn was chasing was his own death.

"Something like that," he heard Bronn mumble before the man was consumed by a fit of coughs. He pulled a tissue from his pocket and wiped away the spittle from his lips.

"You're still drunk." Disgusted by the sight unfolding before him, Clegane's words terminated on an exasperated breath.

Bitter laughter erupted from Bronn. It broke through the silence, but did not dissipate the tension. There was no joy to be found in his laughter. If anything, it only functioned to incite a rising volatility. Sandor silently fumed as Bronn descended further into this self-inflicted form of madness. He would catch sight of Clegane wordlessly glowering back at him and stop momentarily. Then the laughter would come again - mocking and maniacal. And then it stopped for good. Bronn somehow gathered his faculties and held his chin up in an embarrassing effort at dignity.

"Yeah, well you were a drunk once too."

Fearlessly, he stared up at Sandor. It was a challenge. He was testing Clegane, pushing him towards some predetermined point. It occurred to AWOL that Bronn had grown desperate.  _'To darkness, we go together, brother,'_  Bronn seemed to be saying.  _'You in ire and me in madness.'_  At one time, Sandor would have joined him, but that particular man existed no more and Bronn hadn't a clue. So wrapped up in his own grief, he didn't quite know that the world around him was changing and adapting to life's inevitable heartaches.

"Go back inside, Bronn."

It pained Sandor to give the command, even AWOL could see, but not as much as it pained Bronn to hear. Pity was all Sandor could spare him today. It was nothing more than a throw-away sentiment to Bronn. He'd sooner wipe his ass with it than take it to heart. Sandor turned away, walking back towards the men, hands tucked in his pocket as the weight of the world rested squarely upon his shoulders.

"It's that easy for you, yeah?" Bronn's voice cracked as he shouted after Sandor.

Sandor stopped dead in his tracks. He did not turn around, but merely turned his head over his shoulder slightly. Had he looked at Bronn, he would have seen the tears rolling down the man's ruddy cheeks as he rung the tissue between shaky hands.

"You don't even say her name anymore." A sharp sob broke through Bronn's lips and Sandor closed his eyes at the sound, squeezing them shut for all the good it did.

"You were supposed to protect her, but you brought her into this mess instead. You let the life you chose for yourself chew her up and spit her out. You've always acted so torn up about the choice you made to be here, whether it was best for her. You never gave a fuck about what was best for Mirabelle. It was always about you. Never about her. She's now gone because of you."

In the end, Bronn seemed to have succeeded in pushing Sandor back towards where he had come. Over the last few months, the man had internally toiled away at taming the beast which roamed within him. It seemed that that was about to be undone. Face flushed red now, Clegane turned on his heel and bounded towards Bronn in pounding steps.

"I'm not going to tell you again. Go back inside!" This time the words thundered from his chest as he grabbed Bronn by the front of his shirt, shaking him hard.

Bronn's body went limp. His head tilted forward as he lowered his eyes in what AWOL mistakenly took to be shame. Surely he must have known that he had gone too far, but when Sandor let go of him and walked away, the man lifted his gaze once more.

"Go fuck yourself," Bronn choked out. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and the side of his face. He looked as if he were going to be sick as Sandor approached him once more.

"What did you say to me?" Clegane breathed incredulously.

"I said, go fuck yourself, Sandor." With less than a few inches separating them, Bronn's voice had quieted. The space between them was alive with volatility and their eyes were mutually burning holes through one another's skulls.

"Remember when you were a mess, falling apart at the seams? Do you remember that?" Bronn continued, undaunted. "I do." Bronn's arm flew up as he pointed at Disco. "He does too." His finger moved to another capo. "He remembers." And yet another. "He remembers."

"We all remember!" Bronn shrieked on a voice that sounded decidedly inhuman to AWOL's ears. "It's okay for you, but not for us! Not for me!" Bronn was becoming unhinged, kicking up dust as he raged like a madman. "What kind of boss are you then?" he cried out. "Tell me that, brother!"

AWOL had heard enough and flew down the steps two at a time towards the scene unfolding below. When he grabbed Bronn by the shoulders, the man feebly tried to shrug him off. He was weak, though, and reeked of alcohol. It seemed he had intervened just in the nick of time. Sandor's fists were balled tight, knuckles white and ready to fly.

"Come on," AWOL grunted as he threw his weight against Bronn and shoved him back towards the front steps of the mansion. "Get out of here. Go sober up. You're shit-canned, man. You don't even know what you're saying." AWOL was as good as invisible to Bronn as the man stared down Sandor through dull, bloodshot eyes.

"Get him inside," Sandor ordered one of AWOL's soldiers, a man twice Bronn's size. The man obeyed, nearly dragging Bronn along with him as he headed back towards the mansion.

Awkward moments passed where no one spoke a word. AWOL scanned the faces of the men. Some were too scared to be the first to speak, others didn't quite know what to say and instead stared vacantly into the distance. Next to him, Clegane drew in deep breaths. A heaviness seemed to envelope him. He carried it with him where he went. AWOL never knew Clegane to be weak and surely whatever his boss was in this moment, it was a far cry from weakness. He was always a solitary man, but it was then, and only then, that AWOL ever got the impression that Clegane thought he was fighting his battles alone.  _Truly_  alone.

As the men continued to fleetingly glance towards their boss, it became painfully apparent that it was now Sandor who was on the receiving end of pity and it did not sit well with him. Like all flesh and blood men, he craved control, ached for it at times. And yet nothing seemed quite in his control anymore. It was just outside of his reach. He could not control the actions of his brother by blood. He could not control the aftermath of the unfortunate events which brought them to this junction in their lives and the organization. Every face staring at Sandor Clegane had always regarded the man with varying degrees of fear and respect. He was their leader and now he too was silently falling apart. As such, they pitied him and it must have been like salt to a reopened wound.

It was AWOL who eventually broke the silence. He gripped Clegane's shoulders despite the man being considerably taller than him.

"We're here," he insisted on a low voice. "All of us have our head in the game, right where you need us. The best of us are here. With you. Ready to do this. Ready to get this shit done." AWOL glanced momentarily towards the men gathered to the left of him. Clegane followed his gaze and surely found the men were looking back at him, every last one of them nodding their head in agreement to AWOL's words.

AWOL glanced at Pete and remembered the way he had spoken one night, so many years ago, about blood and brotherhood. He hadn't quite known it at the time, but he needed to hear those words, just as Sandor needed to hear them now.

"Blood of the covenant is thicker than water of the womb. We choose to be here. We took our oaths as brothers. We fight as brothers. We die as brothers."

Sandor could only stare at him. Long and hard as if to decipher any traces of deceit, he stared. Then, suddenly and without any warning to even Sandor himself, the man cracked a half-smile and patted AWOL on the back.

Sandor never did say anything in return, but then he was never one for verbally declaring his thoughts and feelings. If AWOL knew Clegane, and he did, he would say that what the man was really trying to say was  _'thank you'_. A smile and a pat on the back was good enough for AWOL.

* * *

An hour south of Las Vegas, the towns no longer had names. Instead, dusty roads ran like rivulets of dirt off of a lonely two-lane highway. The houses were worn down brick shit houses. The sands had diminished what could have once been considered a somewhat charming attempt at an eclectic desert town replete with all the necessary eccentricities.

AWOL had been Sandor's riding companion, an arrangement which was exactly what Sandor needed. The man seemed to intuit the precise situations that called for silence. If ever Sandor needed silence, it had been now. His thoughts had been adrift the entire ride, landing here and there on the words exchanged with Bronn, which beckoned his blood to rise in anger. As such, Sandor chose not to speak on the matter and AWOL knew not to bring it up.

"Martinez picked this location?" AWOL eventually asked when they pulled off of the highway and into some nameless amalgam of a modern day ghost town. The ghosts were real though. Their faces were tan and weathered. They soaked up the sun on tiny front porches or tended to old, rusted out vehicles. The few people they did see stared in wary wonderment as a caravan of black sedans rolled through their sleepy little town.

"Well, I sure as fuck didn't pick this place." Sandor cast a glance towards AWOL in the passenger seat.

The car was humid and his skin sticky. His travel companion had smoked nearly an entire pack of cigarettes along the way, cracking the window every five minutes or so to ash the damn things. A half hour into their journey, Sandor could no longer take the heat and so he ditched his suit jacket. The sleeves of his white shirt were pushed to his elbows and the top few buttons undone. He flung his tie into the back seat as well and rubbed his neck where it had chaffed.

They continued down the main drag of town, a road which stretched a mere mile and a half. At the center of the town, a large patch of dirt was gated off by a wrought iron fence, the entrance a decrepit and rusted gate. Inside stood three dozen or so headstones. Some were older than others by the looks of it, the stone cracked and crumbling. It was then Sandor realized that the population of dead outnumbered the living in this town. The last generation of inhabitants were likely to end up with all the others and the small settlement would fade into forgotten oblivion.

Their meeting place was situated at the end of the road, adjacent to the cemetery. It was the only bar in town, a dive joint with paint peeling off of cinder block walls. The name of the establishment was proudly displayed on a tin sign swinging in the wind. However, it was too faded, chipped, and tattered to decipher and thus went nameless, much like the town itself. Whatever the locals called this place, it didn't quite matter. There was no use for names here it seemed.

The cars lined up next to one another, pulling into vacant spots in the lot. As the Moriarti men slowly emerged from the cars, stretching as they went, a dozen Caballero men slowly filed out of the bar and stood with their backs pressed against the side of the building. They clutched AK-47s and ever so slightly raised them towards Sandor and his men. It was a silent warning, but registered loud and clear nonetheless. On either side of an implicit divide - cartel men and mafia men - no one spoke. They simply stared at one another in equal parts curiosity, apprehension, and a reluctant sort of fear.

Sandor was the first to make a move. It was a small step forward. The dirt crunched beneath his feet and he might have sworn it echoed with deafening sound in the vacuous void of the desert. In a ripple effect, each cartel man clutched their gun tighter and lifted the barrel higher. His own weapon was visible to them - two guns tucked on either side in his shoulder holster.

Twelve men were glaring at him. Twelve men were waiting for him to make a move. Twelve men, some more seasoned than others by the looks of it. It was the young ones Sandor knew to keep a steady eye on. They had the fear in them like a sickness needing to be bled out. And bleed it would, but it would be his blood, not theirs. One wrong move on his part and the shaky hands of one of those young men would squeeze the trigger and reap the consequences later.

Seasoned men, such as Sandor, knew how to read the signs and make decisions accordingly. It was a warrior's intuition, a killer's instinct. And so he stopped and slowly raised his hands in the air.

"El cuervo!" the oldest man of the bunch shouted into the building's gaping hole which functioned as an entry way.

"El cuervo," the others whispered in a haunting chant as they studied Sandor with somber faces.

"What the fuck are they saying?" Sandor questioned to no one in particular as he cast a glance towards his men. They merely shrugged their shoulders in return, as clueless as him.

"None of us speak Spanish?"

Certainly, the gravel in his voice betrayed his irritation as none of his men answered. Sandor had painstakingly raked over the details of this meeting. He'd waited months on end for this. It was his one and only shot. Something so simple and glaringly obvious had failed to capture his attention. It was an oversight which could prove to be disastrous and gave Martinez a steady upper-hand.

Eventually, his small horde of men parted and it was Zulu who came forward. The boy solemnly traversed the distance until he was next to Sandor, shoulder to shoulder. Written all over his face was his displeasure at this happen chance. The kid's eyes shifted to the cartel men still murmuring amongst themselves in Spanish.

"El cuervo means 'the crow' in Spanish," Zulu informed. He matched Sandor's eyes, but paused momentarily before he spoke. He seemed to be looking past Sandor, or perhaps through him, as he listened in rapt. "They think you look like a crow," he finally continued. "Black hair and grey eyes. Tall and strong. They think you've brought death with you here." Whether it was by coincidence or conscious design, the boy's eyes happened to momentarily land on the cemetery some two-hundred feet from them.

Sandor only nodded his head in response. For all intents and purposes, he was the reaper and this meeting did indeed center around death. It was war that brought them here today - as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow, there would be war. Casualties were to be expected on both sides. Somehow that's not what their words meant and he knew by the way Zulu was looking at him. Fear had left the kid and now it was concern that was in the boy's eyes. It left Sandor inexplicably unsettled. He glowered at Zulu to mask his disquiet and stepped towards him, chest-to-chest and toe-to-toe.

"You listen to me," he warned on a deep voice. "I want you next to me at this meeting. Don't think for a goddamn second it's because I've forgotten about any of the shit between you and me. You're going to translate every word of Spanish these wetbacks mutter. You got that? And if I think you're bullshiting me, I'll put a bullet in your skull and leave you here to rot. You understand me, kid?"

"I understand," Zulu nodded gravely, but he was not afraid by Sandor's words. He donned his duty and wore it with pride, beaming at a chance at redemption it would seem.

At Sandor's command, the boy approached the cartel men and spoke something in Spanish. Sandor heard the word 'Zulu' thrown in amongst words he could not understand as the boy presumably introduced himself.

A cacophony of laughter erupted amongst the cartel men and behind the laughter they shouted words in their mother tongue. Sandor watched as Zulu tensed and noted that the boy wasn't sharing in their mirth. Instead, his face was impassible save for small traces of discomfort breaking through.

"They're making fun of my Spanish," Zulu informed Sandor before he could ask. "I speak it with an accent. It's not true Spanish, according to them."

Growing agitated, Sandor stepped forward and the cartel men grew silent, their laughter snuffed out like a flame.

"You tell them we're not here for a fucking Spanish lesson. Where's Martinez? Ask them."

Before Zulu could ask, the eldest of the cartel men stepped forward, AK-47 casually slung over his shoulder. His teeth were rotting out of his head and his face was worn like old leather. He looked like the land he came from - cracked, tanned, and weathered.

"You want to see Martinez?" the man questioned mockingly and in perfect, although accented, English.

"You got a better reason for us to stop by this shit hole?" Sandor countered.

The man merely laughed at that and spit on the ground a few inches in front of Sandor's feet. He muttered something in Spanish, undoubtedly a slew of colorful words and brutal insults. It neither fazed nor concerned Sandor.

The man spun on his heel and disappeared into the darkened doorway of the building, motioning his head for Sandor to follow.

The inside of the establishment had fared no better than the outside through time and the relentlessness of sand and sun. A laughable excuse for a bar was staffed by an middle-aged woman who seemed blissfully uninterested in the group of Sandor's men entering the building. She had perched herself in front of a small fan and flipped through the pages of a magazine.

The restaurant was dotted with a few empty tables waiting patiently for patrons. The linoleum floors were covered over with a thin layer dust, every other square peeling up in the corner or missing altogether. The walls sported faded murals of quaint Mexican villages. Sandor and his men were sandwiched between the armed cartel men, half of them leading the way through the restaurant towards a back room while the other half lagged behind.

Down a short hallway past the kitchen on the left and bathrooms on the right, they entered an elaborately decorated private dining area. The tables, save one, had been pushed to the outer periphery of the room and were covered over with colorful table clothes. One square table was set up at the center of the room, two chairs on either side and place settings at each. It appeared as though this was the only room that had been maintained over the course of the establishment's history. The walls had been freshly painted a deep red and the floors were devoid of yellowed linoleum. Instead, they were covered over in large, beige tile, a few ornate rugs strewn about for good measure.

The eldest cartel member bid Sandor to sit, which he obliged as his men settled around the perimeter of the room, some behind him and some in front of him. The cartel men did much the same as silence descended upon them once more. Zulu continued to stand next to Sandor, his hands tucked behind his back as he stood at attention.

"Sit down, kid," Sandor muttered beneath his breath.

Zulu's ass had barely made contact with the seat of his chair when a curtain on the opposite side of the room was pushed open and four men emerged from a small hallway concealed behind it. Three of the men fell in with their brethren, reticent and stoic as they stood against the wall. The fourth man, Miguel Martinez, continued towards the table. In his search for information on the man, AWOL had unearthed only one picture of Martinez which was some twenty years old. If Sandor had to guess, he'd put Martinez close in age to Alberto now. The man looked entirely unassuming although his manner of dress was as refined as it was immaculate. He was a small man, bookish as if he might moonlight as a professor or accountant, his hair was greying near his temples and forehead. He stared at Sandor through gold-framed glasses with a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"Sandor Clegane," Martinez spoke as he extended his hand. His accent was thick, his voice lush and deep for a man his size. "Welcome. I never thought this day would come."

Sandor stood and took the man's hand in his own with a firm handshake. Martinez held onto his hand and stared up at Sandor, in apparent awe of his size. It seemed neither was what the other had expected. Sandor had envisioned Martinez to be something like Pablo Escabar, greased back hair and sloppily put together for a man of his reputation. Instead, he was met with a man dressed in a fine suit and a quiet disposition. He had assumed that Martinez had similar misconceptions about him - a fat, balding Italian stuffed like a sausage into his own expensive suit bizarrely paired with cheap jewelry.

"Truth be told, I never thought this day would come either." Sandor returned to his seat as Martinez broke the handshake. "It must take a lot out of you to be this elusive." He leveled a stare across the table and tried to decipher whatever he could from the man's countenance. Martinez did not smile nor did he look away. Unblinking, he held Sandor's gaze as he responded.

"I wasn't speaking of elusiveness. Your predecessor, Alberto, was not as persistent as you. In fact, I reached out to him many times during his tenure as boss and he refused to speak with me. Forgive me if I'm not so willing to deal with Moriarti men such as yourself these days."

"No apologies necessary." Much like his appearance, the man's response was unexpected. There was lingering hostility and Sandor now understood something of Martinez's reputation for holding grudges. It seemed he hadn't forgotten Alberto's slight against him and now it was Sandor's cross to bear.

"Pedro!" Martinez suddenly shouted and his voice bellowed across the small room. His eyes did not waver from Sandor. "Macallan!"

In the periphery of his vision, Sandor could see one of the cartel men scurry from the room.

"I'm told you're a whiskey man."

Martinez measured Sandor's reaction with a proud smile gracing his face. This was his way of informing Sandor that he had done his homework on him too. He had sourced out information in preparation for the meeting like any smart man of this business would do. It was a coy attempt at intimidation - subtle yet insistent.

"I was a whiskey man," Sandor responded tepidly, emphasizing 'was' on a drawn out breath.

"You prefer something else now?" Martinez stirred in his seat, head cocked to the side in apparent interest.

"I don't drink on business trips," Sandor informed simply.

Having been a whiskey man, Sandor knew the Macallan distillery produced exquisite varieties of whiskey. When Pedro manifested next to Martinez and produced an ornate glass bottle of the amber liquor, Sandor knew this was from the small, exclusive collection, among the rarest whiskies in the world. Martinez took the bottle from Pedro and studied the label intently for many moments.

"I'm not a whiskey man myself, but I'm told this is the oldest of the Macallan collection – distilled in 1926, bottled in 1986, only forty of its brothers exist in the world. I insist." With that, Martinez placed the bottle in front of Sandor and motioned his head towards an empty rocks glass on the table.

Sandor pushed the bottle back across the table. It was a lesson he had learned long ago from Alberto.  _'Men in this business speak in a secret language,'_ the old man had informed when Sandor was still just a teenager.  _'We communicate in harmless, even kind, gestures which guise hidden agendas and dangerous intentions. You mustn't be fooled by this. The man who smiles at you, shares a drink with you, laughs with you, will be the first to put a bullet in the back of your head. It's the way of the business. You cannot be the first to give in, to accept these gestures. If you do, you've proven yourself to be weak, susceptible to flattery and superficial displays of hospitality. A mistake that many make in this business and learn to their great sorrow too late: you cannot have an ego. As soon as your head inflates, there's always someone there to blow it right off of your shoulders. Don't you ever forget that.'_ And he hadn't forgotten, even after all these years.

"I apologize, but I have to refuse. I appreciate the gesture, however, I don't drink on business trips."

Sandor also hadn't forgotten that while he controlled his own ego and kept it in check, he couldn't say the same for other men - men like Martinez. As the man across the table seemed to shed his quiet, observant demeanor in leu of frustration and affront, Sandor knew Martinez had not shelved his ego. Unassuming as he was, perhaps that was his way of disarming people, luring them in with a misrepresentation of his true self.

"This isn't about whether or not you drink on business trips. You don't trust me," Martinez asserted. Unlike Sandor, his voice did not raise in volume with anger, but rather deepened and became something like a restrained growl through clenched teeth. "You, who after months of persistence which bordered on obnoxiousness, dredge me up from hiding and now you refuse this gesture. Entitlement and pretentiousness are the cornerstone of your organization. Moriarti  _scum_."

By the time the man had finished and was shaking his head in disgust, Sandor too had grown angry and he too kept his voice down as he leaned across the table.

"You backed a hit that was put out on me." He spoke slowly, stopping so that his words might fully register with the man who seemed to so easily forget. "You supported it, you funded it, for all I know you helped plan it. You tell me why I should trust you."

They had reached an impasse and, as such, Martinez said nothing, but rather pressed his lips together into a scowl. They were both prone to suspicions of the other; suspicions which masked scathing entitlement to vengeance against the other. They were similar in that way and although one might think that may provide some temporary comfort, it left them even more at odds.

"Zulu, drink the goddamn whiskey," Sandor commanded finally. Martinez merely laughed.

"Your little pet. You'd rather him drink," the man commented with arms crossed about his chest.

"Not a pet, a translator. A disposable translator," Sandor corrected and cast a glance towards Zulu who had lost all pallor to his face at suddenly finding himself the conversational focal point.

"Drink, kid." Sandor lifted the bottled and set it in front of Zulu.

The kid hesitated at first and his eyes darted about the table before landing on an empty glass. His movements followed his eyes and he carefully grabbed the rocks glass in front of Sandor. He poured a bit of the amber liquid into the glass and studied it carefully before taking a deep breath. In one, steady gulp, Zulu upended the contents, wincing at the liquid burning down his throat.

Finding humor in Sandor's precautions, Martinez erupted into laughter once more. It was loud, startling both Sandor and Zulu alike, and the cartel men joined in.

"If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead by now," Martinez assured Sandor although the sentiment was devoid of any real reassurance.

"Likewise. So why is it we haven't killed each other yet, Martinez?"

The laughter had died down and the tides of the conversation shifted once more towards accumulating tension. The walls seemed to soak it up and bleed it back out. The room felt dark and, perhaps it was the heat, but claustrophobic too. Each man in the room was armed and, given even the slightest gesture of distress on the part of their leader, would turn this place into a blood bath.

"I can't imagine you came all this way to ask me why I haven't killed you yet," Martinez spoke with a soft roll of the eyes. "Besides, you seem to already have all the answers so you tell me."

"I have something you want," Sandor offered sharply. He was tired of the back and forth, the prelude of bullshit. "If you take me down, the opportunity to get what you want vanishes with me."

"It appears we've both realized the benefit of this arrangement," Martinez agreed with a nod. "Because I have something you want too," he added with a fair bit of mischief in his voice. "I have it right under my thumb."

"First things first, you reached out to Alberto all those years ago," Sandor continued. "He told me about it and he told me what he said to you in return."

"The fucking Moriarti code of morality," Martinez seethed. "Drugs are filthy business, he told me. He might as well have spit in my face, the self-righteous old bastard."

"You respect Alberto, though. You respect how he operated his organization and how I operate it now. I deal straight. I run a tight ship. I don't get caught up in the drug business because drugs get messy. It's a fact. Even you know that. I did my homework on you too, Martinez. You struggle to keep control of your organization. You got in bed with the Severelli and shit has gotten worse for you since then and for me too."

With that, Sandor had unearthed Martinez's weakness. And it was then he knew that Martinez counted his involvement with the Severelli as perhaps his greatest misstep. He too had paid for it dearly and this was yet another common thread between him and Sandor. The truth, spoken so bluntly, had left the man jilted and unnerved.

"Let me guess," Sandor pressed further. "My brother told you that, as of right now, you'd be sitting pretty in Las Vegas, finally seeing your legacy reach its potential. I bet he told you that you'd be tying up some loose strings by now, that you'd be well on your way to retiring somewhere nice where you could live out the rest of your days drinking expensive bottles of whatever the fuck it is you like and smoking some of the best Cubans. But you're not, though. Instead, you're dealing with a shit storm, one you hadn't anticipated, and you're sitting here with me, the man my brother promised would be dead."

"What is it you want?" Martinez sounded exasperated, tired. He wasn't cut out for this anymore, even Sandor could tell. The charade was beginning to fall by the way side and now they were speaking plainly with one another.

"You'll be surprised to find that you and I want the same things," Sandor continued. He did not mince his words for there was no need. He kept it plain and simple. "I want my brother dead and I want to kill him myself. That's what I want. You're going to tell me where he is and I'm going to go after him. When I walk out of here today, you and your men will no longer be bedfellows of the Severelli. You and I will have a business arrangement. I will have your full backing and your manpower when I go after Gregor. When the deed is done, and only when it's done, I will set you up in Vegas."

A slow, quiet chuckle escaped Martinez's lips. It was in stark contrast to all Sandor had heard about the man. He was purportedly brutal, ruthless, unrelenting. It seemed as though age had softened him and Sandor was dealing with a different man entirely, one he hadn't quite done his homework on.

"You're just as presumptuous as Alberto. Perhaps even more," Martinez commented although there was no vitriol to be found in his voice. It was merely an observation of an old man looking at someone who reminded him of his younger self perhaps.

"I'm presumptuous because I know you'll accept my offer. I do indeed have something you want. I have something you've always wanted."

"Presumptuous, but perceptive. I will give you that," Martinez nodded in reply. "Your brother promised me many things, your death was one of them, Vegas territory was another. He has delivered on very few of these promises. But this begs the question: why should I believe your word when your own flesh and blood has proven false?"

"Gregor and I may share flesh and blood, but I assure you that he's no brother of mine. I want him gone. I want his organization wiped off the map."

A hum came from Martinez as he contemplated Sandor's answer, resting his chin on a balled fist.

"Interesting to reject him as your kin and yet you and him both want the same things." The man paused momentarily to pull two cigars from the pocket of his suit jacket. He placed them on the table, one right next to the other. "Perhaps you two are not so different as you might think."

He motioned his head towards the cigars, bidding Sandor to take one, which he obliged. Pedro appeared once more to cut the cigars and light them.

"I want territory in Las Vegas. You have the means to give this to me," Martinez asserted, puffing on the Cuban dangling between his forefinger and thumb.

"You can operate out of my card rooms," Sandor confirmed with a nod. "Emilio Ventimiglia has no use of them anymore."

"This Ventimiglia is dead, yes?" Martinez inquired.

"He's permanently indisposed," was all Sandor responded with.

"So long as he doesn't come back for what's his," Martinez gazed up at Sandor with uncertain eyes.

"The card rooms are mine. He just managed them for awhile," Sandor assured on an exhale of smoke. "He's not coming back. I'll make one thing clear though: the Moriarti will not be involved in your beef with the Ybarra. That's your own shit so don't bring it to our doorstep. Other than that, you'll have free reign over Vegas. We won't interfere."

Martinez settled in his seat and gently closed his eyes, apparently pleased with the deal. He was an odd man, Sandor noted to himself. Nothing at all like what he expected and yet he reminded him of someone. Alberto perhaps.

"About the hit. Damian Johnson was involved. How does he factor into all of this?" The question had lingered in the back of his mind. The man had simply vanished, or so it seemed. AWOL had come up empty handed, and so too had Disco, when Sandor requested the whereabouts of Officer Johnson.

"The dirty cop? I'm not sure. He hasn't been heard of since it all happened." Blasé and uninterested, Martinez merely shrugged his shoulders and continued to savor his cigar.

"I find that hard to believe," Sandor replied. Damian was too proud of a man to lie low for too long. He'd surface eventually, usually due to his involvement with the Blood Kings. He'd brag about his connections to anyone willing to listen.

"I don't care about your personal beliefs. I never dealt directly with this Damian," Martinez snapped, suddenly ill at ease. "I only met him once and I didn't care for him then. Marco was the one who favored him and, now that Marco is dead, Damian does not come around anymore. That's all I know."

"And my sister? You knew about that," Sandor pushed further. He couldn't say for certain why he even asked. It hadn't been his intention to do so and yet he found the words coming of their own accord. The walls suddenly seemed to be pressing in upon him and he felt sick to his stomach. The smoke billowing from his lips no longer held a faint sweetness. Instead it was bitter, much like the words themselves.

"No, I give you my word that I wasn't involved in that, Mr. Clegane. I'm a sick man. We all are to be in the business we're in. And yet it made my stomach burn to hear what he had done to your sister. You see, I too have a sister and my heart aches to think of such horror happening to her, and by the hands of family no less."

A fervent passion seemed to envelope Martinez as he spoke. His words were not simply sounds pouring from his mouth. They were heavy with a sorrow Sandor didn't understand and wasn't likely to be made privy to anyhow. He believed the man, though. Inexplicably, the sentiment meant something to him. And a strange thought occurred to him then that that was how Mirabelle affected people. Her memory seemed to be enough to bring her alive and if one truly took the time to notice, the room seemed warmer and words sounded more sincere. Martinez couldn't possibly know and so Sandor only nodded in reply.

"Your brother is two and a half hours north of Las Vegas," the man informed. "My men have been keeping tabs on you while Gregor prepares for war. For all he knows, we're still doing that. I suggest this all gets taken care of soon. Your brother is preparing to move within a week's time."

"Tomorrow," Sandor spoke before the man had hardly finished his sentence. The word lingered heavy between them as Martinez suddenly looked up at him from over the top of his glasses, which had shifted down his nose.

"No, too soon," Martinez chuckled, but Sandor could not share in the humor.

"I want it done tomorrow," he repeated more firmly. In this, he would not relent. The room was suddenly astir. His men shifted against the walls, straightening whereas before they were slouching, vividly whispering amongst themselves whereas before there was silence.

"I'll see if this can be arranged," Martinez responded casually. "No promises though."

Sandor felt his own body move unbidden. He flew from his chair, palms pressed to the table as he leaned forward until he was eye level with Martinez. The man didn't make a noise and he didn't move either. Instead, his arms rested on the table and smoke billowed from his cigar in the space between him and Sandor.

"I don't deal in 'maybes' and 'we'll sees'," Sandor cautioned. "It gets done tomorrow or the deal's off the table. Do you understand me? We're doing it tomorrow and it's as simple as that."

Martinez spoke not a word, but had balled his hand in a tight fist. He silently mulled over Sandor's words in either an effort at composing his own response or perhaps an exercise in infuriating Sandor further. The walls now moved in on Sandor in a literal sense. Hovering around him were half a dozen cartel men and another half dozen of his own men right behind them.

"Do you want Vegas or not?" Sandor settled back in his seat. "This is the last time you'll have an opportunity like this. Better take it while it's on the table."

"Fine. Tomorrow." Martinez responded before shooing his men away with an irritated wave of his hand. Ash from his cigar fluttered down to the table. "We will work out the finer details this evening."

"I invite you and your men to share a meal with me and my men," Martinez added with a tense smile. The relief had already come pouring in behind the man's eyes though. It was a means to an end for the both of them, that much was clear. "We're business partners, Mr. Clegane. And the only way this is going to work is if the trust is mutual."

With that, Martinez poured himself and Sandor half a glass of whiskey each. With a cigar dangling in one hand, Miguel Martinez lifted his glass with the other.

"To our arrangement," he intoned softly, sincerely. "To your success and mine."

Sandor mimicked the man's movements and lifted his glass. "To your success and mine," he repeated, unending the contents while keeping a steady eye on Martinez. The man across the table from him did much the same.

The evening had proceeded in a forced sort of merriment. The details had been ironed out and agreed upon after exhaustive debate. Mistrust had slowly melted away with the steady encouragement of alcohol. Sandor's men seemed to instinctively follow his example with a measured and modest intake of expensive liquors that had been offered to them. He knew well enough to keep his wits about him and when Martinez seemed to notice, the man descended into a Spanish diatribe. Zulu had quietly translated what was nothing more than colorful commentary on Sandor and his men. It seemed Martinez found them to be dull company and speculated on where they hid the sticks that seemed so firmly planted up their asses.

It was at that time that Sandor saw no further benefit of lingering around. He had risen from his chair then and caught the murmuring of "el Cuervo" from some cartel men as he bid farewell to Martinez.

By the time they left, night had fallen across the little desert town. The air was still and cold. They rolled out of the town much as they came - silent and with a solemn understanding of death on the near horizon. The inhabitants had moved inside now and watched from windows, yellow light pouring out and noses veritably pressed against the glass. In this town, the ghosts were indeed real and they stirred at night, restless for only god-knows-what reason. Certainly, one might say it augured misfortune, but Sandor couldn't be bothered to pay much mind to such nonsense. Instead, he focused his attention on the details he had discussed with Martinez. Quietly, he did this as the cherry ember of AWOL's cigarette glowed somewhere in the periphery of his vision. He was ill-at-ease and unnerved although he could not say why.

His fears were comprised of failure, not of Gregor. But to call the stirrings from within fear was not quite right either. He found himself suddenly afflicted with more long-forgotten nonsense of lines on palms. His hand gripped the steering wheel tighter; the same hand which bore some road map of his destiny, his fate imprinted there to play out like a bad dream contrived by the gods. But it wasn't his palm, his destiny, that concerned him. It was hers.  _An untimely death. An accident._

When he laughed out loud at the thought, finding some morbid ridiculousness in the memory, AWOL shot him a perplexed look. Sandor made up his own nonsense - some drivel about finding humor in Martinez's jabs at him. AWOL chuckled in return, thankful for a distraction from his own thoughts. They never spoke of what truly vexed each of them. There was no need. They reached their destination at Moriarti's as the conversation lulled to a natural end.

The house was quiet when they entered, most of the temporary occupants having turned in for the evening. The capos who had stayed behind were up and waiting along with various made men. Lorenzo Falconi was the first to capture Sandor's attention as they packed into the foyer. He had felt the man's insistent stare on him from the moment he walked through the door. Falconi did not need to say anything to Sandor when their eyes met. He already knew what the man wanted to know and so Sandor gave only a slow nod of his head.

"It's happening," Falconi spoke, voice echoing through the foyer. "We're going to war." The others fell silent at that and all turned to look at Sandor.

"Tomorrow," he confirmed. "We head out at dusk."

The men who had stayed behind were gaping at him. Some shook their heads, others breathed expletives beneath their breath. In the end, they understood that this day would eventually come. It was what they had been waiting all these long months for. It was here. And perhaps for the first time, Sandor himself began to understand the cold reality of it all.

"We'll meet first thing in the morning to discuss the details. For now, I suggest you make tonight count. Go be with your families."

He met no resistance to his suggestion as the men filed out of the foyer one by one. Some had women to go to. Others would spend the night in solitude. Sandor found himself cursing the way he'd left Sansa today, wishing to steal back the time that had been wasted with her tears and his silence.

"Sandor."

Just as he had taken two long and hurried strides towards the stairs, he heard Alberto's voice call to him from the parlor. Inside, the man was alone in near-darkness. A tiffany lamp shed it's light in vein. The open space of the room swallowed up the light and Sandor could only vaguely make out the features of the old man's face. Alberto stood with his arm resting on the fireplace mantle. He stared off into the corner as if he found something of interest there. His brow furrowed in thought and a long, pained sigh came from his lips.

"What's going on?" Sandor asked in confusion.

Alberto took his time to reply. Long seconds dragged on and Sandor wondered if the man had even heard him. When Alberto finally answered, he turned towards Sandor, his head downturned.

"A week ago a body washed up on the banks of the Colorado River, just south of Laughlin. The coroner has just identified the body as the remains of Myranda Royce, Nestor Royce's daughter."

"Gregor." Sandor hated speaking his brother's name. He loathed the sound of it and the memories it conjured. It sounded vile and disgusting to his own ears, but it was the first and only word that he even thought to say. Even in the shadows, Sandor saw Alberto softly close his eyes and nod his head.

"Her condition would suggest it was your brother's handiwork. She was -"

"I don't need to know," Sandor interrupted. He knew his brother's handiwork. He had seen it himself. By night, he still dreamed of Mirabelle and every so often she came to him in his dreams battered and broken.

"Of course," Alberto spoke. "However, what you do need to know is that the media is sensationalizing the story. It's all they've talked about since early this evening when the news broke. People have a sick fascination with the grotesque. Tragic though it is, this has brought the Royce massacre back to the forefront of everyone's attention. People will begin to wonder whatever happened to the District Attorney's daughter. One young girl washes up on the banks of Colorado river. Soon enough they'll remember there's another girl still missing from that night. Sansa-"

"Where is she? Does she know?" Sandor interrupted. Although Alberto was speaking the truth, in a fevered frenzy which surely sought to unravel him, Sandor felt momentum pulling him towards her. He fought tooth and nail with the urge just long enough to hear Alberto's answer to his question.

"Yes, she knows," the man confirmed solemnly. "She's upstairs in your room. I tried to be of what little comfort I could to her."

Sandor nodded by way of reply.  _Alone. She wants to be left alone._

As quickly as it came, the beckoning and longing he felt was ripped from him and Sandor was at a loss. A sad smile somehow managed to materialize on his lips. She kept her sorrow from him and it wounded him in ways he had never anticipated. She didn't owe him access to the parts of her she kept hidden and he had no right to demand it. That much he understood. But it didn't stop him from wanting it and, glutton for the pain, he'd always try. As such, he began the journey upstairs to find her. Before he left the parlor, though, he heard Alberto speak once more.

"It was you she wanted, Sandor. The one she needed."

When he turned to look at Alberto, the man was standing in the small sphere of light afforded by the lamp. He did not smile, but stared at Sandor who was now the one shrouded in darkness. When he spoke, his words seemed to resonate with Sandor in a way they hadn't in quite some time.

"She may not have said as much, but I know in the same way I know that you need her too. You two need each other. Go to her now. Take your own advice and make it count."

* * *

In her past life, autumn nights were a thing of beauty. The cold air sanctified the land and pacified it until everything grew quiet. The wind moved through the trees which gave a dying sigh before surrendering their leaves to the ground below. Sansa never even minded the rain that invariably came and rather let it sing her to sleep those cold, crisp nights.

In the desert, autumn nights were a thing of terror. Or perhaps it had always been this way. Out the window, the darkness was never ending. Even the pale light of a full moon did not shed her lunar grace here. Darkness elicited a collective fear that was shared among all and Sansa did not quite understand its unearthly origins.

Wars between rival mafia families happened every so often and the women spoke of these past tiffs as if they were business as usual. But the strained voices and downturned eyes were all she needed to hear and see in order to know that this particular war was promising to be an anomaly.

Here, the stillness of autumn did not preclude a pleasant silence, but rather assured upheaval. Here, it was the calm before the storm. And in the same way a storm brings about an eerily acute awareness of danger, so too did these desert nights. Electric anticipation flowed through their existence and left an unsettled sickness in its wake. It was a disease of subdued mania. It was then that she remembered madness was part and parcel to the rabbit hole.  _"We're all mad here, Alice."_

The thought had fluttered through her mind as her hands moved in nervous and monotonous motion folding shirts and matching socks together. The laundry basket was a haphazard mixture of her clothes and Sandor's. The TV had been on. It was nothing more than background noise until her ears picked up a familiar name. It was the name of her dearest friend.

Charlotte Royce had hired a professional make-up artist to do Myranda's make-up the morning senior pictures were to be taken. Despite the pomp and circumstance, Myranda hated the pictures and swore she looked swollen and fat. And now those same pictures were plastered on the television as some passingly sympathetic anchorman relayed the devastating news. Her body had been fetched from the Colorado River, too bloated and battered to be recognizable. No kin came to identify the remains and so her cold corpse sat in a morgue to only now be identified as Myranda Royce.

Trembling, Sansa found herself standing in front of the TV, staring at the screen. She listened but did not hear and watched but did not see.  _It's all too much_ , she thought. Indeed, it was too much. So some guardian of her spirit lifted her from her body because if she had remained, she would have crumbled and snapped. She floated somewhere above her own consciousness in a trance-like state brought on by self-preservation. When her faculties were returned to her, it felt like taking a punch to the gut. She let out a gasp, groping and grabbing for anything to hold onto. Her fingers coiled desperately around the bed post, but it wasn't enough. The fall to the floor carried on for an eternity and when she hit the ground, her fingers dug into the carpet, scratching and clawing there.

She lifted her eyes to the ceiling as tears barreled down her cheeks. Eyes go to the sky in times like these, heads upturned looking for answers. She thought she might find God up there and she meant to ask him why he was doing this to her. Up above, she only found the angel of death and it seemed to speak to her.  _You have now your death in threes. Your mother, your friend, your best friend. Gone, gone, gone. One, two, three._

When she thought she might vomit, Sansa stumbled into the bathroom and grief followed her in. She wrapped her arms around the toilet and heaved, but only because she could no longer seem to breathe. Gasping and broken sobs echoed all around her.

Alberto Moriarti found her in the pathetic state of embracing the cold, porcelain toilet, tears pitter patting the water within. Once more, her eyes went up above and she meant to ask him why this was happening to her. He was a god here after all, but perhaps even gods do not know why the human heart suffers needlessly. Sure enough, he offered her no answers and instead crouched down next to her in delicate movements. "My darling girl, you are not alone,"he had whispered before kissing the top of her head. He stayed for awhile, but did not speak again. Not even when he left.

After he was gone, Sansa opened the window to invite in the cool breeze. Back to the floor she went and hours later awoke with her face nestled against the bathmat. She had cried herself to sleep and now the darkness was spilling in from the outside and, with it, came the cold.

It was then that an inexplicable fear left her near breathless. It clawed at her chest which tightened in response and left her hands trembling as she dashed towards the lights. A cold wind was pouring through the window and, even after she shut it, her body was afflicted with a peculiar chill that soaked to the bone. When she found herself craving warmth, Sansa settled for the tub as the only warm embrace she was likely to find. She drew a bath and warily convinced herself it would suffice for now.

Although the water felt divine against her skin, she realized it wasn't warmth she craved, but comfort. The waters eventually grew tepid. She stayed in the tub for well over an hour, waiting to be washed clean of her fear. It never did leave her, though, and instead Sansa found herself strangely recalling all the horrid omens that were relentlessly haunting her.

Deaths in three and moon in seven. Lines on her hand and one tarot card left unfulfilled. Never before had Sansa felt imprisoned by her own fate. Shivering in the luke warm water, she pulled her knees to her chest. Strands of her hair were soaked at the ends and floating in the water or plastered to her arms and shoulders. When a sound outside the bathroom door roused her attention, Sansa bid herself to silence and watched in nonsensical fright as the knob turned.

The door opened to reveal darkness on the other side until it was Sandor who was hovering in the door frame. Sansa released her breath in something between a sigh and a whimper. Quick on the heels of terror, relief came coursing through her veins with the steady beat of her heart.

Hands tucked in his pockets, he leaned against the doorframe, one leg crossed over the other. The guilt was evident in his eyes and it was then that Sansa knew he had already heard what had happened. When he gave her a wan smile, she was reminded that Sandor always seemed to know her heartache in a way the others couldn't possibly dream to.  _Shall we always be bound together by tragedy_ , she meant to ask when her eyes lifted to him. She knew the answer and so did he. They never spoke of this particular truth, but sheltered it between them, taking care not to manifest its cruel destiny. Sansa returned his smile before resting her chin on her knees.

"Someday you'll have a proper place to hide away,"Sandor finally spoke, his voice deep and dark with the insistent wear of fatigue. "Some place much nicer than a bathroom."

Sandor lifted his eyes above as he surveyed the room. Beautiful though it was, it would never do for his darling, his Queen. He'd put her up in palace fit for tears, but it wasn't what she wanted it and it wasn't what she needed so she said nothing in response.

Sansa stared at the water and heard him sigh as he came closer to her. Sandor lowered himself to the floor next to the tub, resting one arm on the edge as he looked at her.

"I know you don't like it when I see you like this."A quiet sadness lined his words. His hand came to rest on her knee poking out of the water. His skin was warm, his touch gentle. Sansa closed her eyes and the chill that had clung to her slowly released its hold.

"Myranda was your friend."Although not a question, Sandor's voice inflected at the end and he was looking at her questioningly. Sansa nodded her head in reply.

"Myranda was my best friend. We grew up together,"she answered. Eyes downturned to the water grown cold, she could not manage to match his stare. Nevertheless, she invoked the memory of her dear friend as the words spilled from her lips. But it was another memory that nudged its way to the forefront of her mind. She remembered his eyes on her from across the room, the heat hitting her cheeks and spreading down her chest like wildfire. In those days so long ago, she had wanted this, craved it with impetuous naiveté.

"She used to call me Alice, like Alice in Wonderland. It was because I was always the naive one, always such a good girl, always doing the right thing. I used to think that if you wanted something bad enough, you could make it happen, that things just had a funny way of working out. I remember the night of the party wishing that for once in my life I could let go and lose myself; that I could just do one reckless thing, fall down a rabbit hole into another world. And here I am. I got what I wanted."

Now it was Sansa who cast her eyes about the bathroom with a mournful smile at tremendous odds with the bittersweet ache in her chest. Sandor followed her eyes about the room and for the first time, he appeared to her as something of a stranger in his own domain.

"Turns out I'm just as naive as before. I woke up today thinking that maybe I could stick it out after all. I thought we could make it work here. Somehow it would all just be okay. But you knew. You've always known it wasn't going to work out."

Sandor Clegane did not believe in palms or cards. He had no need to divine his future when he seemed to already know what it held, for him and for her.

"It doesn't end, does it?" Sansa's voice was tremulous and she understood now the fear she had seen emerging in him. Together, they shared in it and the room drew darker with the knowledge passing between them.

"No. This is how things are,"was his solemn confirmation. "It's how it will continue to be. The violence, the death. It never stops and it never changes."

Shivering in the tub, Sansa's tears came of their own accord. It seemed the water had not rid her of her fears, but rather ushered in a new awakening. The veil had been lifted. It was a light in the darkness, illuminating the terrible truth of the reality in which she existed.

She swatted at the tears, wiping them away with wet finger tips. "I can't do it. I can't," she breathed, staring at Sandor through the tears.

Sandor pulled in a deep breath through parted lips and, although he did not hang his head, his eyes lowered towards the floor.

"I would never ask you to. I would never want you to. I told you that you were too good for this shit and I meant it."He gripped her knee and scooted closer towards the tub as if he feared the walls might be listening to the words he spoke. His eyes darted about her face. "Don't you understand what I meant when I said that? I don't want to be here either. I don't want this for you. I don't want it for me. I don't want it for us."

He stopped momentarily and gathered back the composure that had steadily fled him.

"I'm leaving, Sansa. I'm leaving the Moriarti. I'm done here. We're done here. We can't stay. It won't end well if we do."

 _All this time,_ she thought with morbid amusement.  _All this time of trying to be the darling, the Queen. A wasted sentiment. Turns out you wanted it no more than me._

"I can't imagine it will end well if we leave either,"Sansa mused darkly. She slumped further into the water, fully realizing now the difficulties they faced, she and him.

"No. They'll be coming after me. And you too, if they know you're with me,"Sandor confirmed with a heavy nod. He took her hand in his then, resting his forehead against their fingers interwoven together. He was tired; so tired, she could tell. It was him who was crumbling now, much like she was. It occurred to Sansa then that she wasn't the only one keeping secrets and fighting like mad to hold herself together for his sake. Sandor too had spent these months slipping away to mortar the pieces of himself back together. Her darling, her King, he too was falling apart beneath the weight of it all.

Just as the realization careened into her, Sandor lifted his gaze to look at her. Sansa leaned against the edge of the tub and rested her head upon his shoulder.

"I fucked your life up by bringing you here,"he spoke in sadness, his breath warm against her cheek. "I saved your life, but I brought you into a mess. You think about time stopping. I think about it going backwards. I think about the choices I could have made, things I could've done differently. It scares me to hear you talk about trying to fit in here, trying your damnedest to make it work because I know what this life would do to you. It would destroy you, Sansa. You hear me? It would destroy you."

He pulled away slightly and lifted her chin so that she was looking at him. He pressed his forehead to hers and brought his hand up to cup her cheek.

"You will do all the things you've wanted to do, but you're not doing them here, not as the girl of a mafia boss. I want to leave this all behind, Sansa. I want to start over with you. Isn't that what you want too?"

Sandor's lips pressed softly against her mouth in gentle kisses - one right after the next, each more yearning than the last. Sansa nodded in reply and returned his affections with arms wrapped around his neck and bare breasts pressed against his chest.

In him, she found the comfort she so desperately craved and so did he. They clung to each other, arms coiling tighter against the other with synchronous sighs of relief.

"Okay. Then that's what we'll do. You and me. Always you and me."Sandor rested his cheek heavily against the top of her head, rocking her ever so slightly to and fro, casting waves about the water.

For a moment, they seemed to forget. The chill of the night had fallen away as they held onto one another. Serene stillness enveloped them, one they hadn't encountered in quite some time. The sweetness faded as she felt Sandor's body grow ridged within her arms.

She pulled away to study his face and knew by the furrow of his brow and the worry in his eyes that something was wrong. In an instant, the dread and portent flooded the room.

"The meeting I had today was with a man who used to work closely with my brother,"Sandor began. "He knows where Gregor is and is going to war on my side. I made a deal with him and it's the last deal I'll make as a part of this organization. The man I met with didn't know how long Gregor would be in one place so we agreed that the sooner we get this done, the better."

"How soon?" Sansa asked, but her voice was hoarse and her throat dry. A ravenous terror rendered her body cold and her limbs numb. It feasted on the subdued joy she had felt only moments ago.

She watched as Sandor closed his eyes and lowered his head.

"How soon, Sandor?"she demanded.

"Tomorrow. We leave tomorrow in the early evening," he informed at her insistence, eyes lifting beneath his brow to look at her.

"No." The words came unbidden from her lips as she shifted in the tub, the water sloshing around her."No."Over and over, she could only say but that one word. Sandor's hands engulfed her own as he sought to still her movements and calm the frenzy that had overcome her.

"Little bird, this was coming,"he insisted gently. "We've been waiting for this for so long. It will all be over tomorrow."

 _It will all be over tomorrow._ If it was reassurance she was supposed to find in his words, she was met with none. Instead, his words only invoked thoughts of mortality and death.

"Don't say that. Don't say it like that,"she pleaded with him weakly, staring at him wide eyed and nearly incapacitated with fright. "You can't go. I have a bad feeling. I've had a bad feeling. This is…it's not the right time. We can leave, Sandor. You and me, we'll go. Tonight. We'll go. Please…"

For all her fear, it was hurting him, tearing him apart at the seams.

"I can't do that. You know I can't do that."When he spoke, she saw the regret and guilt fracturing through. "You'll be safe here. I have it planned out. I'm taking a lot of good men with me, but I'm leaving even better men behind to take care of you, to make sure you're safe."

Sandor pulled her closer, brushing her hair from off her shoulders and kissing the newly exposed skin. Each kiss – across her shoulders, up her neck, and on her lips – initiated the calm once more. He savored her lips, his fingertips traced across her collarbone and the curve of her breast before working circles over her nipples, which hardened at his touch. When his hand dipped in the water to settle at her lower back, Sandor recoiled.

"Jesus christ, the water's freezing."

Strong arms lifted Sansa from the tub and wrapped her tightly into a towel before picking her up. One arm beneath her knees and the other around her back, Sandor carried her into the bedroom, eyes heavy with desire and watching her as he went. He laid her down on the center of the bed and studied her intently; the tiny gasp released through her lips as he slowly pulled back the towel, the rise and fall of her chest, the goosebumps emerging on her skin as his hand settled against her waist.

He said nothing, but gave a faint smile as he took in the sight of her. They had spoken all that could be said and now was the time of silence, a time of revelry in one another. No longer shy about their couplings, Sansa relished his touch and guided his hands to the spots where his fingers felt divine.

Easing down on top of her, Sandor claimed her mouth again, his tongue working in tender circles against her own, his hands alternating between cupping her breasts and running up the inside of her thighs as he spread her legs further apart.

His fingers caressed their way down her stomach and between her legs, trailing through the wetness gathered there before sliding into her. When she gasped, he teased her lips with the tip of his tongue and left her whimpering when he lifted himself from off of her. Still settled between her legs, Sandor shrugged out of his white shirt and pulled off the T-shirt which had been underneath. He shucked out of his pants and returned where he had been, this time stroking the thick length of his cock with the palm of his hand as he matched her eyes. In the dull light of the room, he looked as if he were sculpted from marble, every muscle worked to perfection. Another flush of wetness soaked between her legs and Sansa bit down hard on her bottom lip.

"Turn over,"he commanded with a groan, eliciting butterflies to form in her stomach.

Doing as he said, Sansa went on hands and knees. On all fours, she felt Sandor's tongue running across her slit in teasing movements before delving into her wetness. His hands pushed her legs further apart and she felt her arms begin to wobble as waves of pleasure pounded into her. Through the sound of her own panting breaths, Sansa could hear the satiated moans Sandor gave as his lips and tongue worked in delicious concert. He loved giving her pleasure in this way - loved the way she tasted, the way she trembled and sighed whenever he buried his face between her legs. Perhaps it was the control he loved in these moments, to render her whimpering and writhing with a few flicks of his tongue against her clit. She loved it too and he knew it. She wanted him with an insatiable lust which never failed to surprise and thrill her.

Another throaty groan came from him as Sansa slowly rolled her hips, grinding gently against his ministrations.

"Please. Oh God, please," she begged on broken breaths as he mercilessly worked his tongue against the places that drove her wild.

The past few months had been spent in utter bliss of exploring one another. Sansa found herself enthralled at Sandor's demands to know what she wanted and how she wanted him to fuck her. Scandalized at first, Sansa would blush and stumble over her words. Now, she knew and he did too. He would ask and she would tell. He loved to hear her say the words and she loved how he followed through on her requests.

"Please what?" Sandor demanded, sending shockwaves through her as his lips brushed against her clit as he spoke. He gave gentle licks as he awaited her answer.

"Please fuck me," Sansa moaned.

"Such a proper lady with your 'pleases'," Sandor chuckled as he lifted his face from between her legs, licking his lips as he went. Sansa had swiveled her head over her shoulder to match his eyes. She rocked her hips into him in dawdling, fluid movements until she felt the hardened length of his cock moving between her legs which was saturated in the wetness he had elicited.

"Like this," she whispered, gazing up at him. "I want you like this."

Sandor bit his lip hard and his eyes seemed to glaze over with wild desire. A hum, something akin to a grunt, came from his lips which worked their way up her spine and across her shoulder as he leaned over her, both of them now on all fours.

"I want to feel you, baby," he whispered in her ear before sucking gently on her earlobe. Sansa felt the familiar pressure against her opening and looked over her shoulder to find him staring at her, seeking out her permission to take her in this way.

She nodded her head and felt Sandor press deeper into her, his body nearly crippling on top of her as he growled through clenched teeth. With his chest against her back and his lips trailing kisses down her neck, Sandor thrust into her. His hands covered hers, fingers interlaced.

"So fucking wet and tight,"she heard him murmur, words disjointed with pure bliss and hot against her skin.

Sansa was in raptures over the heat between her legs, the way his cock not only filled her, but how she could feel every bit of him as he glided slowly in and out of her. As she murmured nonsense about how good he felt, Sandor wrapped one arm around her and kneaded her breast. He rolled his hips in steady motion, sweeping past the spot that rendered her an incoherent mess with each pass. When his hand moved down her stomach to stroke her clit, Sansa let out a sharp gasp and her legs began to shake.

"I know what you like, girl,"he growled in her ear through panting breaths, fingers and cock working skillfully between her legs. True enough, he knew how to please her, but Sansa craved more of him. She felt her legs sink further apart and now she was matching his movements, urging him deeper into her.

"More, I want more,"she managed, as breathless as Sandor.

Easing back up, Sandor gripped her hip with one hand, the other pushed her into the bed, her chest pressed against the mattress as he thrust into her deeper and faster. He had gathered her hair in his fist, giving a gentle yank as she cried out her pleasure, the blankets muffling the sound.

Modesty went to the wayside as Sansa's release broke upon her and she paid no mind to how loud she had become. Her moans resounded about the room and it seemed to drive Sandor wild as he pounded into her harder. His fingers dug into her hips and when Sansa turned over her shoulder to watch him, he had thrown his head back, eyes squeezed shut and mouth distorted as he pulled out of her quickly before sounding out his release on a thunderous growl. A few quick strokes of his cock and Sandor was doubled over, jolts of ecstasy moving through him as he came, seed spilling over his hand.

He collapsed to the bed, rolling to his back before turning to look at Sansa, his chest heaving. His face was flushed, his eyes half closed and his lips parted as he caught his breath. After slipping to the bathroom to clean up, Sandor returned to bed, a sleepy grin plastered across his face. Sansa welcomed him into her arms with soft kisses which he eagerly returned. Quiet moments passed as this way as they settled comfortable next to one another, smiling and satisfied.

"I have something that belongs to you, little bird,"Sandor eventually informed with a sated sigh. He rose from the bed and walked in measured steps towards the dresser. Sansa sat up, holding the blanket to her breasts as she watched him with curiosity, deviously admiring his naked form as he went. Through the mirror, she could see his lips were curled in a half-smile as he pulled something a drawer. Whatever it was, he clutched it in his hand behind his back. He climbed in bed, joining her once more beneath the covers.

"What is it?"Sansa insisted with a giggle as she tried to pull his arm out from behind him. Sandor shared in her laughter, a deep chuckle rumbling from his lips.

He conceded and pulled his fist from behind his back, unfurling his fingers to release his mother's necklace. Sansa's breath caught in her throat, her body stilling. The amethyst hung delicately from the chain, the beautiful stone catching the soft light of the room.

"I've wanted to give it back to you for a long time now."He settled his eyes on hers when he spoke, the smile faded as he stared as her in earnest. "I don't know why I waited. Maybe I was worried that-"

Sandor stopped himself short and shook his head against whatever thought had besieged his mind. Sansa took the necklace from his fingers and held it against her palm, studying all its glorious and gorgeous facets. She lifted her gaze to him, eyes sweeping over the long strands of his hair falling amongst broad shoulders and strong arms. He looked content. For the first time in so many months, Sandor looked at peace. She understood all that she meant to him and knew he held just as much import to her. They were better together, him and her. Unstoppable and unbreakable and with that thought, she crawled on his lap and wrapped her arms around him.

"I love you, Sandor Clegane. I love you, but somehow when I say those words, it never seems enough,"she spoke gently, pressing her nose against his cheek and closing her eyes. "I know now why you always say it's you and me."

She pulled away just enough to meet his eyes. Clutching the necklace in one hand, she brushed her fingers through his hair with the other. Cradling her in his arms, Sandor laid down and Sansa nestled her head against his chest. He spoke to her quietly and his voice was edged with sleepiness.

"People fall out of love. Love goes away. Love gets ripped apart by selfishness. It gets abandoned because people are too stupid or lazy to take care of it. But you and I, little bird. You and I are something else entirely. It's not so simple as I love you and you love me. It's more than that, but you already know that. We both do. You and I."

Sandor took the necklace from her hand and fastened it around her neck. He shifted closer to her, pulling her naked from against his own. His lips met hers in a slow kiss, one which lingered as they both relished the sweetness it held.

Eventually, Sandor turned off the bedside lamp and, in the midnight hour, they found themselves lying in the dark. Limbs entangled and bodies pressed together, he smoothed his hand up and down her back, over her shoulder, down her arm. Head rested against his chest, she had been listening to his heart beating, her head moving up and down with each breath he took.

"I'm scared," she whispered, suddenly trembling although she was warm in his arms.

Sandor shifted beneath her and turned to his side so that he was facing her. He took her hands in his and interlaced his fingers with hers. In the darkness, his features were only a silhouette – hooked nose, strong jaw, soft lips for such a hard man.

He was afraid too. She could feel it even as darkness crept in all around them. It beckoned his eyes to lower and his fingers to coil tighter around hers. When he looked at her, she thought he might confess these fears to her.  _It will all be over tomorrow._ It very well may be and he knew the macabre meaning of his own words just as well as she. The space between them was heavy with unspoken sorrow, but he did not speak of his fears. Instead, he pulled in a breath and spoke resolutely, assuredly - for his sake as well as her own.

"No more of that. No more," he insisted quietly."We're not going to be afraid anymore. I'm tired of us being afraid for what's going to happen. You want to know what's going to happen? I'll tell you.

You and I, we're leaving this place. Anywhere you want to go. Anywhere at all. We're going there. I don't care where it is. It doesn't matter. We'll go and no one will know who we are. We'll start over, you and me. No one will know our background and it won't matter. We'll make friends, we'll make babies, we'll make it work, but more importantly we won't be scared anymore. We won't need to be scared. I'll live my life on the straight and narrow and you'll live the life you were always meant to live, do the things you were always meant to do.

Tomorrow when I leave and your pretty little head starts to fill up with wild ideas about all the awful things that might be happening out there, I want you to remember all of this. You think about it because that's what I'm going to be thinking about too." By the time he had finished, the tears were streaming down her cheeks and rolling over her lips. Sandor grew quiet before kissing the tears off her lips and whispering against her mouth. "It's the only thing that keeps the fear away."

For a time, it did keep the fears away. Through a night of unsettled sleep and a morning of lovemaking, the fears were gone with each caress, each shudder of pleasure, each sigh of release. When he left her to brief his men, the sickening worry crept back in and siphoned the breath right from her lungs. Her heart was breaking with preemptive mourning and she feared to know all the reasons why. It was then she remembered that fate had promised her tragedy in love. With that remembrance, the fear had won. She committed Sandor's words to memory, could hear his voice murmuring them to her in the darkness, but it wasn't enough.

By dusk, the men had accumulated outside, grouped off and geared up. They kissed their women and hugged their children. They clapped one another on the back with stern faces and stoic demeanors. Sandor had found her then and scooped her into his arms. He held onto her for as long as he could, kissed her soundly on the lips and told her how very much he loved her.

He strode off towards the cars and for a moment she hoped he would not look back. Her body shook and she turned her eyes towards the ground so that he would not see her crying should he turn around. The sound of engines firing up and car doors slamming shut masked the sound of her ragged breaths until she heard footfalls coming nearer to her and growing louder by the second. When she lifted her eyes, Sandor was walking back towards her in hasty steps, determination heavy on his face. Sansa was in his arms as soon as he reached her. He held her tight against his chest, his fingers buried in her hair as he breathed her in.

"Listen to me,"he whispered in her ear. "I'm coming back to you."

"You can't say that, Sandor. You don't know what-" she cried quietly before he cut her words off, his lips pressed against hers and stymieing the fear before it even started.

"Yes, I can. I'm coming back to you," he insisted. "It's you and me, remember? You and me."

He pulled away then to look at her and he was smiling, palms cupping her cheeks as she stared up at him. He would never lie to her and she could do no more than resign herself to put faith in his words. He would come back to her. He would defy her fate and his own, he would deny death if he needed, but he was coming back. She returned his smile uneasily although she felt as if the world was crumbling around her.

When he walked away, Sansa remembered how some of the men were marked for death. In the quiet hours of night, when the darkness reigned heavy and supreme, he had spoken of fear. She had thought that he was afraid for her and for him, but she realized now that the fear had taken on a different form. It was ghastly and reminiscent of the same fear she had seen in the other men, the men who knew with strange, ethereal knowledge they would not return. It haunted them by night and followed them into their dreams. It stole their sleep and invaded their waking thoughts.

She lifted her eyes to sky and hoped to find God there amongst the red twilight. The black wings of a crow was what met her eyes as it flew north, beating like mad against the cold wind.  _You've taken almost everything from me. Not him. You cannot have him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, ladies, as you can imagine this is the calm before the storm...
> 
> I apologize for the hiatus between this update and the last. I have moved across the country and am still adjusting. If you left a review for last chapter, I promise I will give each and one of you lovelies a reply. 
> 
> As always, thank you endlessly for the support and love :)


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: This chapter contains depictions of violence (some graphic at times), mentions of sexual assault (see below), and strong language.
> 
> I have placed *** at the beginning of the paragraphs which some readers may find disturbing. You can skip over these and still enjoy the rest of the chapter.

**Gods and Monsters**

Chapter 17

* * *

 

When Sansa was six and found herself caught in the upper limbs of a tree, she feared for her life. To a child, the plummet to the ground below – a mere seven feet – would have resulted in at least two broken bones, if not a sure death. She had whimpered and cried up in that tree, shaking so violently that it was a wonder her little fingers managed to grip the branches as tightly as they had. However, when her wobbly legs finally hit solid earth, she wiped away tears with dirty hands and turned back to the tree, arm in arm with her little friend, Myranda. She had conquered that fear and from then on heights never held the same sort of terror for her that they once had.

Immersion therapy, it was supposedly called. It bid those plagued by phobias of all manners to suck it up and face their fears head on. They might as well call it "get your shit together" therapy, as if it were so simple.

Some ten years later, sweet sixteen and sprawled out on Myranda's bed, Sansa had been flipping through the pages of magazines, and first heard of its existence. Her friend had grown uncommonly quiet, no longer chatting away as she had been. Instead, she had been staring out the window as her mother's BMW sped up the long driveway. Cheeks all red and flushed, Myranda had shyly confessed her mother's foray into immersion therapy.

Charlotte Royce feared aging in the same way that others feared heights or crowded spaces. It wavered on the precipice of a full-fledged hysteria she was destined to never rid herself of. Her body had continually betrayed her with the passing of each year, skin sagging in yet another place it hadn't before.

Pumped full of collagen and other chemical concoctions to reclaim her youth, the woman had apparently sought out the help of a psychiatrist, although she never did quit her plastic surgeon either. The dueling doctors, Myranda used to call them, because each had their own capabilities of curing her mother's ailment, each by drastically different means.

Charlotte felt no shame in all of this. The rich housewives, bored out of their minds, with money burning holes in their designer handbags, dropped the names of their psychiatrists as yet another pathetic means to find their place in the pecking order. Charlotte's psychiatrist had suggested immersion therapy and instructed Mrs. Royce to spend time at a nursing home, talking with elderly women about the unexpected joys of aging gracefully. Charlotte Royce promptly quit her psychiatrist and scheduled an appointment for Botox injections the very next day.

Myranda was in equal measures embarrassed and envious of her mother – constantly at odds with whether she should loathe the woman's superficiality or emulate it. She had only admitted this conundrum to Sansa on that day. Her parents' marriage was loveless: her mother dead on the inside, her father an alcoholic and a womanizer. Dressed in expensive clothing from designer boutiques, diamond studs glittering in her ears, Myranda confessed her fears of the legacy being left for her. Fated to become just like her mother, the girl envisioned a different life for herself. A life that was perhaps a bit more humble, love taking the place of wealth, sweeter, simpler. A life like Sansa had. Immersed instead in a life that reminded her of all that was lacking, all those pleasures that could not be purchased, Myranda stowed her fears away to bide her time in the lap of luxury.  _'I'll get out some day. I'll be different,'_ the girl had said, something in her eyes alerting Sansa that she wholeheartedly meant it.

In her life cut so dreadfully short, Sansa's little friend never did get out, her fears never conquered, her dreams – so simple and unassuming – never realized.

Sansa could not quite say why she hadn't gone back inside just yet. The leggings she wore were a feeble barrier against the cold concrete porch step sufficing as a seat. The light had faded so gradually that she hadn't quite noticed she was now left in darkness. The realization was thrust upon her all at once and it was then that she likened herself to Charlotte Royce with her dueling doctors, delving right into her fears, or perhaps, avoiding them altogether.

She liked to think that she was commencing her own form of immersion therapy, unintentional though it was. Somehow she learned to fear the darkness of night. It wasn't night itself, though, that sent her body to shivering and her heart to racing with dread. It was an unmistakable heaviness that the night brought with it. The darkness sheltered grievous portent that gathered like a black mass in the corners of her existence. So visceral it was, Sansa swore she could reach out and touch it if she wished to be so brave. Now she remembered with horrific fright how Mirabelle had confessed a similar fear the night before her death. The woman's eyes seemed to trail about the musty, old motel room, seeing something Sansa could not. She wondered if the woman could see death coming for her.

Grandmother Tully had claimed she could see death on people. It appeared to the old woman as a ghastly sickness that hollowed out eyes and sent souls screaming within their own fated bodies. And what did her grandmother see in the mirror those days before her own death? Was it the same thing Mirabelle saw when she was left near crippled with fear as the reaper hunted her down in the days before her demise?

Deciding to face whatever it was that night was so steadfastly protecting, Sansa had sat outside after the men rode off. The sun was gone, and terror had risen in its place. The crows were restless, flapping their wings and squawking some dissonant song. Sansa remembered the crow that had been in front of the motel room door. It had nearly sent Mirabelle over the edge, right into sheer panic, a fight or flight instinct perhaps. But what use was fleeing death? Sansa had not known how to comfort the woman that night but had sat with her anyway, trying her best to distract her from whatever it was that Mirabelle had come to fear. Sansa understood Mirabelle's terror, now, in a way that she knew was no coincidence or instance of belated empathy.

On the front steps, Nina's shoulder was warm against her own. In much the same way that Sansa had quietly offered Mirabelle comfort via company, Nina was doing the same. Sansa's other arm had soaked up the chill of the evening, and her skin was likely cold to the touch. Brigitta sat on the step in front of them, her lips wrapped around a clove cigarette, the smell of which was decidedly Autumn. Every now and then, the woman would lean her head back and purse her lips, blowing smoke to the sky with a small, dreamy smile. The blanket of darkness above them was cloudless, and the stars housed there were the only joy Sansa could find in this terrible state of twilight.

Nina had been quick to snatch Sansa up after Sandor and the other men left. Like a lost, little rag doll, Sansa had been left standing on the front steps, staring at her scuffed shoes with warm tears streaming down her cheeks. The other women had returned inside along with the various made men and capos, who were charged to say behind. Those men were fewer in numbers than Sansa would have imagined, but she remembered that a majority of the Moriarti might was stowed away elsewhere. Perhaps more men would come to the mansion or perhaps not. She didn't know the logistics of it all.

Sansa thought she had been left alone before Nina looped her arm around her shoulders. Another woman, one Sansa had only seen intermittently around the mansion, wordlessly followed Nina next to Sansa's side. Her name, Sansa learned then, was Brigitta. The woman first appeared at the mansion about a month and a half ago with a small, tattered duffle bag as she quietly pleaded for AWOL to let her stay.

Brigitta was tall, long legged with shoulder length brown hair, streaks of which were bleached and now faded to a brassy shade of yellow. Her lithe arms were covered in tattoos, which expanded beneath loose fitting tank tops and off-the-shoulder shirts she was fond of wearing. Brigitta was striking, no doubt about it, but she always seemed to shrink away from attention, preferring to slink into the background, shoulders slumped to make herself appear as small as possible. Sansa had observed this proclivity and knew well enough to associate it with a woman who had probably spent her life being told she wasn't good enough.

That presumptuous conclusion was confirmed as Sansa saw how Brigitta seemed to shrivel in the presence of any of the Moriarti men, averting her eyes to the floor in fearful subservience. Brigitta had once caught Sansa watching as this transpired and must have seen that Sansa pitied her. The woman could have easily interpreted this as a condescending gesture, Sansa looking down upon her from some pedestal way up high. Realizing this, Sansa had smiled at Brigitta, bright and genuine, and the woman had returned the gesture shyly but gratefully.

They had never spoken, though, not before Nina introduced them, and Sansa had shaken Brigitta's slender hand, warmly declaring how very nice it was to finally meet her. With mascara undoubtedly smeared beneath her eyes and tears still fresh on her cheeks, Brigitta could have pitied Sansa, too, and probably did. However, Brigitta initiated the same gesture Sansa had once given her. It was a smile that betrayed a selfless sort of sweetness and understanding, one that didn't function to alleviate feelings of sympathetic obligation.

With the men riding out at dusk, the girls had sat with Sansa since then, silently refusing to leave her side unless she requested it of them. Sansa did not make such a request but instead, enjoyed their company, although she did not speak much. It was then that Sansa could see the disturbing parallels between herself and Mirabelle. Did these women sense the fear Sansa was so wholly afflicted with? Her bottom lip bore the brunt of her worry as she chewed away, tearing at the dry skin until the taste of blood emerged on her tongue. She licked at her lip just as Nina finally broke the silence.

"Ladies, it's fucking cold out here." Her announcement was met with duel nods of agreement by both Sansa and Brigitta. "What do you say we go inside?" Nina leaned up against Sansa, nudging her with an elbow until Sansa broke into a smile, lip pulling and eliciting fresh beads of blood.

"I'd say you've got the right idea," Brigitta laughed, smoke billowing through her lips and out her nose. The woman took a few last pulls of her cigarette before smashing the ember against the step in streaks of dying red.

Inside, the house seemed oddly empty and was unusually quiet. Sansa had grown accustomed to the din of noise that carried throughout the mansion – the conversations, the shuffling about, the pitter-pattering of footsteps. She had looked forward to the day the mansion grew quiet and peaceful once more, much like it was when she first came here. The stillness she now found bizarre and unsettling. There was no peace in this sort of quietude.

The wives of capos and valued made men had gathered in the kitchen, their children tucked close to their sides as they spoke quietly amongst themselves. That, too, was another anomaly Sansa was quick to notice. Normally, these women were loud. They cackled when they laughed, heads thrown back and wine sloshing out of their cups. They talked over one another, each clambering for their voice to be heard. After putting their children to bed at night, these women put the men to shame as they polished off bottles of wine between the lot of them. Only now, they spoke in hushed, conspiratorial tones. It was as if they were waiting for something, arms crossed impatiently about their chests, Italian leather shoes tapping incessantly against the tiled floor.

As Nina, Brigitta, and Sansa slipped past, the ladies in the kitchen turned their heads in unison, noses went up in the air and eyes iced over with unsolicited contempt. The three of them were not welcome among the women gathered around the counter. Sansa already knew that and found it bothered her less as time wore on. She found friendship in other places, like the two women she was sandwiched between, now, as they hurried off towards the great room.

It was there that the  _other_ women had gathered - the goomahs and the women who were not quite goomahs. The latter had appeared at the mansion here and there, and Sansa could never quite tell which man had claimed them. It seemed to change – one man one day, another man the next.

Regardless, the divide amongst the women was blatantly obvious - the wives had separated themselves from the women who were, in one way or another, unfit to join the ranks of their "Frigid Bitch Club", as Nina and Brigitta called it. The Italian mothers would have likely made an effort to bridge the gap, forcing the ladies to alternate along the length of the kitchen counter, each wedged between two women they could not stand, to roll dough or chop vegetables. Wine would flow with golden abandon until they were rendered into a state of inebriated tolerance of one another.

However, the Italian mothers had been sent off weeks ago, too precious to stay for war and no longer part of the Moriarti whole. They were the generation of wives and sisters from Alberto's father's time. Many were the original Moriarti women. They didn't care for the mattresses anymore and left when the house became too full. Without them here, the ladies of the mansion found their respective places - either with the privileged wives of capos and made men or the seemingly ragtag group of girlfriends and bed warmers.

The girls in the great room sat with one another in tiny clusters scattered about here and there, some on the floor and others on couches. Subdued chatter filled the room, and a fire had been lit, a radiant warmth spread about. It was a lovely sentiment likely meant to calm frayed nerves.

Carving out their own bit of space, Nina slumped to the floor, her back against the side of an oversized couch. Brigitta followed Nina to the floor, and Sansa found herself once again placed between them. Nina stretched her arms over her head, eyes closed with a smile as the heat of the fire soaked into her skin. Her husband, Disco, had been one of the men who stayed behind. Sansa imagined that explained a bit of the ease with which she seemed to carry herself, the same ease she tried to inspire in Sansa and Brigitta each. Sweet though it was, Sansa and Brigitta could only smile gratefully before casting glances towards one another in doleful commiseration. The night promised to be long and dark, full of fret and somber awareness of heartbreaking possibilities. No amount of bright smiles and casual condolences could eradicate the silent fears written on the faces of women dotted about the room.

Brigitta followed Nina to the floor, and Sansa found herself, once again, placed between them. It seemed both women had decided to shelter her during this trying time, to busy her from worrying endlessly.

As some of the men were marked for death, the women they left behind carried the burden of worry, the acknowledgment that their lover would not be coming back. In the kitchen, the wives could sound out their grief and find consolation in the others. It was the women in the great room who suffered silently, fearing for the same man as some of the wives in the kitchen, but unable to find the solace they so desperately sought. And so they sat silently, faces drawn in despair and hearts breaking.

Nina could try to understand Sansa's worry and soothe it over with thoughtfulness, but the relief was temporary, more a distraction than anything else. It was Sandor's words to her that were now her comfort, words about their future playing back to her like something of a broken record put on play yet again. In a gesture of superstition, Sansa had prevented herself from dwelling on the images those words conjured.

Only now, when she felt so terribly in need of them, did the thoughts come to life in the form of images: cold winter nights burrowed beneath blankets, lazy summers on front porch swings, strong hands resting protectively on her swollen belly and his voice speaking to the child within. A little house, a little garden, a little family because her dreams for them were little and she liked it that way. He would like it that way, too, she knew. Little dreams could not tempt the cruelty of fate the way fantastical towers of grandeur reaching towards the heavens could. After all, she had pulled the Tower from the tarot, gazing upon the dreadful way the inhabitants of that card fell from their castle in the sky, struck down by the inexorable forces housed in the darkness of night. But that wasn't what the card meant. It was a vision of the horrific happenings that had brought her here amidst gunshots and breaking glass. Her sheltered life - humble and small - was torn from her, brick by brick, although she had never been the one to build a tower.

And with that thought, her fingers lifted to her throat involuntarily and traced the patina of his mother's necklace. Beyond her dreams for their future, it was the only thing she had of left of him.

"I guess this is where I belong," a voice suddenly sounded out, floating over the quiet conversations occurring about the room.

In unison, heads bobbed up towards the genesis of the voice. Sansa, too, lifted her eyes, and when she did, she found that genesis to be an unfortunately familiar sight. Her chest tightened instinctively, and her mouth seemed to dangle open before contorting in disgust.

The blonde-haired woman wore considerably less make-up than she had at Mirabelle's visitation, perhaps because there was no one here she sought to impress. Even still, Sansa recognized her. She had swapped out barely-there dresses for some garish Ed Hardy get-up, the Lisa Frank for skanks, all bright colors and rhinestones.  _No, this isn't where you belong,_ Sansa scoffed internally.

She knew, though, that technically this would be the side of the bilateral divide that this woman belonged on. Yet unfolding before her very own eyes was the formation of another rung in the hierarchy of the Moriarti women. The blonde was not met with greetings or smiles or invitations to join one of the many clusters of ladies gathered about. Noses went up in the air, and eyes iced over with contempt, but this sort of vitriol seemed warranted, or at least, well-established. The blonde had made her bed, and she would go to the mattresses in it, alone and ostracized from even the most disgraced of the women beneath this roof.

The blonde had taken to twirling a strand of her hair about her finger and shifting uncomfortably from side to side. The smile she had sported just moments ago had vanished and was replaced with a small frown, eyes downturned.

The sound of Nina's snort drew Sansa's attention away from the woman still standing amongst awkward and purposeful silence.

"Oh look," Nina taunted only loud enough for Sansa and Brigitta to hear. "It's Roxie. The Moriarti bicycle."

If Sansa looked confused, she wouldn't have rightly known. A flurry of emotions seemed to emerge all at once, but confusion must have been the front-runner of her countenance. Brigitta leaned in closer to Sansa with a devious smile.

"Everyone gets a ride on the Moriarti bicycle."

Nina laughed and rolled her eyes. "That bitch has been pumped and dumped more times than she knows how to count."

"Why do you think she's here?" Sansa ventured, mildly aware of the petulant frown tugging on the corners of her mouth.

"Men have needs, girl. Roxie knows that better than anyone. If she didn't, she'd be out of business. But she's not coming around for your man anymore, not since you've been with him. She's with Johnny now, but that doesn't mean she won't try again, though."

Nina's sympathetic gaze landed on Sansa, who took the opportunity to eye Roxie once more. In all fairness, the woman could have been pretty once. Now, she only looked pathetic as she leaned up against the wall, tapping the screen of her cell phone and putting up appearances that she was too preoccupied to notice how the other women had spurned her.

"She was with Sandor?" Sansa pressed, feigning ignorance on the matter, if only to quell the emergence of both jealousy and curiosity, a toxic concoction if there ever was one. The question tumbled from her lips. She made no attempt to stop it but winced as she said the words out loud, cringing at their apparent pettiness.

"A long time ago," Nina responded, easing further back into the side of the couch. "She started coming around about five years ago, right around the time Clegane was made boss. She was a friend of one of the goomahs. The bitch took one look around, decided she liked the mafia life, and tried to set up camp with men who were already taken. It's no secret the men take mistresses, but there's a code of ethics even among the women.

"The goomahs don't parade themselves in front of the wives, rubbing it in their faces that they're fucking their husbands. Roxie missed that memo. She's not here to make friends. She's here to bag herself a man, an important man. Not just some made man, but someone with power and sway. That's why she was so hard up for your man, Sansa. They didn't last long, though. I'd say maybe two months or three, but during that time she walked around the place like she shit diamonds for a living.

"She tried to crown herself Queen of the Frigid Bitch Club. You can imagine how well that went over. If you think they treat us like shit, you should have seen the way they ripped her a new asshole. Mirabelle hated Roxie with a fucking passion. They had words with each other on several occasions. Roxie caused a lot of problems. She complained to Clegane when she didn't get what she wanted - attention from him, respect from the women. Finally, he had enough and kicked her nasty ass to the curb."

As Nina finished, she swiveled her head over her shoulder, eying Roxie, who had tucked away her phone and had once again taken up twirling her hair around her finger. She no longer sported a bored expression but now seemed to survey the room searching for a friendly face. Some women promptly ignored her. Others would launch disgusted stares in her direction as they whispered amongst themselves. It seemed Roxie had become aware that she was the topic of conversation in each tiny circle of women.

Infuriating though it was, Sansa couldn't stave off the tendrils of pity she felt breaking through any lingering traces of jealousy, which even she knew was an unwarranted reaction. After all, what was there to envy of this woman? She had been used and discarded time and time again yet came back around for more. Now, she looked as if she might burst into tears - rejected by the men and women of the Moriarti alike. No one to turn to and no one to comfort her as the events of the evening played out.

Down the hallway to her right, Sansa heard a trio of footfalls, three men rushing towards the great room with urgent steps and strained voices. When she looked, Alberto Moriarti was leading the way, Disco and Big Johnny flanking either side of him. It was a typical sight and one that should not have roused much attention. Surveying the room, Sansa saw that it, indeed, hadn't. The women continued their conversations, only fleetingly aware of the three men sweeping through.

Alberto appeared to Sansa uncharacteristically disturbed. She had never seen the man shed his thoughtful and placid reserve. That was the very novelty of his retirement into the role of Consigliere. It was now Sandor's job to get worked up over mafia matters, not Moriarti's. Alberto still had his vested interests in the organization, but he always remained the voice of reason and the picture of calm.

Only now, the old man was pale and his eyes flooded with fret. By the looks of it, Disco and Johnny shared in whatever worry it was that besieged Alberto. All three men shared identical visages of distress given away by the tight lines their lips were pressed into and the grave manner in which they regarded one another. Given her vantage point on the outskirts of the room, Sansa could hear their conversation as they breezed past her.

"Lorenzo's crew was supposed to be here an hour-and-half ago," Disco huffed anxiously. "An hour-and-a-half ago!" he repeated, though the other two men certainly heard him the first time.

"We're too few in numbers." Alberto shook his head as he spoke and kept his voice down, suddenly aware that, perhaps, their conversation was no longer shared solely between the three of them. "Has anyone thought to ask Lorenzo where his men are? Surely, he's keeping in contact with them."

It was the last thing Sansa could hear before the men were out of earshot. She could see Disco and Johnny shake their heads at Alberto's question. Sansa wondered what they meant. Had Lorenzo not contacted his men, or did his attempts go unanswered?

A quick glance towards Nina, and Sansa saw that she, too, had heard the conversation, but before Sansa could speak, Brigitta stole the words from her.

"What if those men don't come?" the woman queried, and she had suddenly gone ashen in the face as if she already knew the answer to her own question. "What's going to happen?"

"Nothing good," was Nina's solemn response. Sansa and Brigitta both looked to her for wayward reassurance, but Nina had none to offer.

Sansa did not know where Moriarti and the other two men were heading, but their path was promptly intercepted as the wives began filing out of the kitchen. Wrapped in coats, necks coiled tight in scarves, and children bundled up in indiscernible little balls, the women hurried towards the foyer in a cacophony of clicking heels that roused the attention of everyone in the great room. They offered no explanation but hurried along with purses and bags in hand. Behind them were two capos and a dozen made men, all in the same state of cold weather dress, bags packed and ready to go.

"What the fuck is it you think you're doing? And where the hell is your crew? They were supposed to be here an hour-and-a-half ago." Disco's voice echoed through the room, which had grown deadly silent, save the sounds of uncomfortable shifting.

His question was directed at a man who looked to be much older than all the other capos, perhaps a generation younger than Moriarti himself. His hair was dark, save strands of silver, and his goatee was neatly trimmed. Small in frame, he looked distinctly Italian, another oddity amongst the capos, who were untraditionally mixed in their backgrounds.

"I'm leaving," the man informed, plain and unapologetic. "I've got a wife and kids. A lot of us do. If something goes wrong out there, this is the first place the Severelli are coming. We're not staying here for that shit."

_'We're not staying here.'_

With that, there was yet another divide. It erupted like a gaping hole, an insurmountable void, tearing them all apart. In a literal sense, the two men stared at one another from across this divide. On one side stood Disco, Johnny, and Moriarti. Behind them, the women deemed too undesirable to be of any worth watched in disbelief as the others abandoned the cause. In line to take a direct hit of whatever storm was gathering, those on the other side were heading for higher ground.

The married women had already begun hurrying from the house as if they might succumb at any moment to whatever fate lie ahead. Their men followed suit, unwilling to stay a moment longer. Even Lorenzo had turned away, but as he took a step forward, Disco bounded after him.

"I've got a wife too, Lorenzo," he shouted, flinging an arm towards the great room where Nina sat silently, eyes shut as she listened, face contorted in a pained expression. "But it's our job to stay here. That's our part in this."

"Then stay here, and die with the mattress sluts. I don't give a fuck," Lorenzo countered, and he cast a disdainful glance around the room. His eyes landed on Sansa and hovered there momentarily before Disco railed into him once more.

"You son-of-a-bitch! So what, you're just going to leave the rest of us behind?"

As Disco ranted, face flushed red in anger and fresh fear, Alberto had remained severely silent on the matter. His eyes drifted back and forth across the floor at his feet as if he were following the horrific lines of cause and effect this had set into motion.  _Why aren't you saying anything? Say something! Do something!_

Perhaps he had felt the insistence of her eyes on him and the pleading she had taken up, a screaming in her mind, but suddenly Moriarti lifted his gaze to Sansa. In that moment, a sharp shock of understanding shattered whatever frail sense of ease she had managed throughout the evening thus far. Come hell or high water, Lorenzo and the other capo, Half-Stroke was his name, were leaving. They were taking their men with them and their families, too, and they were leaving. Moriarti had somehow divined their fate, knowing even before these men left that they were too few in numbers. There was nothing to be done.

"Our women and children will be safer somewhere else," Lorenzo added without remorse or second thought.

Once more, he had emphasized the divide, and now it was Johnny's voice thundering through the room as the big man approached Lorenzo.

"You're only taking certain families, certain women." For such a large man, Johnny's voice had broken off at the end, becoming eerily frail with the sudden acknowledgement of exactly what was occurring.

"Precisely," Lorenzo responded distractedly as he pushed past Johnny and rushed into the great room, circling around clusters of women with his eyes intent on Sansa. "Jail bait, come on. Let's go."

Rendered into a state of utter confusion, Sansa did not move, save for the panicked glance she cast Moriarti. Lorenzo loomed above her, insistent as he tried to snatch her by the arm. When she recoiled, he grew agitated, enraged even.

"Are you fucking deaf or stupid? Come on!" With that, he succeeded in grabbing her. Strong fingers clamped painfully around her upper arm as he dragged her across the floor.

"No!" she squealed, bare feet digging against wood floors too slippery to offer any real reprieve as the man gave her a hard yank. Her shoulder throbbed in response, and her other hand clawed at his fingers, urging their release.

Whipping around, Lorenzo pulled Sansa to her feet with a forceful tug. She stumbled to gain her balance, only managing the task when the man threw his body weight into her.

"You're coming!" he shouted inches from her face. "I'm not having my brains blown out by Clegane because you were left behind. Let's go!"

Another pull and she stumbled again, this time losing her footing and falling to the floor.

"No!" she cried out again, writhing against the dull pain pulsing through her arm.

She didn't care if this man had been made privy to some terrible end that might befall her should she stay. He would not protect her - not here - and certainly not in the bedeviled darkness waiting outside. The night was cursed; it was so plain to see. Neither here nor there (wherever that was), it made no matter, and she understood it with a keen awareness that justified her fears. No amount of immersion into them could eradicate their suffocating presence. Those fears loomed in shadows that seemed to have infiltrated the room. The night was on them and all the terrors it held, too. They would be made real to her soon enough, and she would rather face them amongst those that held her best interests at heart.

"Let her go." Another hand had coiled around her other arm, and Disco's voice was loud in her ears, now, as he pulled her towards him, away from Lorenzo. "Let her go!" he shouted, succumbing to the rage at this abandonment.

When Lorenzo let go, Sansa was surrounded in an instant. Moriarti was in front of her, Nina by her right side and Disco on the left.

Lorenzo had turned away and was walking towards the door. Those who would leave had already done so, and if Sansa found the house dreadfully silent and empty before, it had grown even more so now.

"Clegane will hear about this," Moriarti spoke darkly, voice quivering with anger, or perhaps, his own fears. "And he'll be coming for you next."

Although Lorenzo did not turn around, Sansa could see he let out a laugh. His back had risen and fallen with the tell-tale signs of sardonic mirth. He spun slowly on his heel as he regarded Alberto.

"Don't kid yourself, old man. This was a suicide mission from the start. I highly doubt Clegane's coming back."

Sansa felt as if her knees might buckle, and her legs were as good as useless for sustaining her weight. Her heart might as well have stopped beating, and perhaps it had, as she felt it plummet to her stomach. Had she not been surrounded on all sides, she would have likely fallen to the floor.

Her eyes lifted to the shadows of the room, half expecting some specter of death to be there, taunting her through others and promising her a fate that was nearly unbearable.

When the front door slammed shut, they were left alone, not a single soul speaking a word. The clusters of women had grown smaller, no longer cast about the room in leisurely circles but clinging to one another in horror. Nina led Sansa to sit on the couch, and Brigitta dashed to her side as well, seeking out comfort as much as all the rest.

"How many do we have left?" Moriarti asked, no longer in hushed tones. They were all in this together. The women knew what this meant, and there was no use in shielding them from the knowledge of what was coming.

"Sixteen, including Johnny and myself," Disco answered. "The rest of our crews are out with the boys or at the mattresses somewhere else."

Alberto nodded his head slowly as his eyes drifted to the floor. He took a few quiet moments to himself, deep breaths being pulled into his lungs before he spoke once more.

"Turn off the lights, shut the blinds, lock the doors," he directed calmly. "Get the girls in a safe place, and call for back up. Anyone that can get here should do so. And quickly."

"You don't think…" Disco left his thought to linger there, and Moriarti picked it up where the man had left it.

"Yes, I do think. And it's not a matter of if. It's a matter of when."

* * *

By some cheeky gesture of the Universe, "Highway to Hell" had broken through Bronn's backseat oblivion as they barreled down this godforsaken road. He had been initially roused by the sound of AWOL battering the steering wheel with the heel of his hand as he belted out the lyrics. The intermittent glare of headlights from passing cars illuminated the sight of Pete in the passenger seat, ghosting through riffs on a phantom guitar. The two were a sight to behold – bizarrely buoyant considering the nature of this outing.

The two-lane road they were heading down cut through a barren expanse of desert. Mile markers had disappeared by now, and the far-off glow of a small town had long been extinguished, gobbled up by a night darker than any in Bronn's recent memory. It seemed they were the only souls out on the road. The passing of cars had thinned out, and, for all he could tell, they were, indeed, on a highway heading straight into the heart of hell.

But this wasn't quite a highway, though. It was a dirt road lazily filled over with asphalt, pockmarked with potholes that wreaked havoc on the rims of their Mercedes Benz. Since when had they become pretentious pricks, riding around in luxury vehicles?

Bronn remembered the days of muscle cars and pick-up trucks, of not giving a fuck about rolling up in glossy mob mobiles. In those days, it was him and Sandor, raising hell and rewriting the rulebook. They did away with the outdated la Cosa Nostra notions of Sicilian swagger and sway, and replaced it with grit, fortitude, and just a touch of recklessness. It was a completely self-indulgent overhaul back then. In booze and women, Bronn had rediscovered his youth, while Sandor exorcised his wild side, getting it out of his system before Alberto would even consider passing down his legacy. Eventually, the women moved on, and the liquor lines ran dry. It was then that Bronn and Sandor solidified their places on top, noses to the grindstone in a partnership to build something great – a new age.

When they rode out back then, it looked eerily familiar to the scene playing out in the front seat of this very car - rock n' roll anthems, pumping adrenaline, all piss and vinegar. He cut a glance towards Sandor, hoping that maybe the man seated so quietly next to him had discovered the same bit of nostalgia, and it might thaw the frigid way in which they seemed to regard one another.

It was a rare thing to see Sandor Clegane opt for the back seat of any vehicle. In outings such as these, he always preferred to be the driver, and perhaps, that was just one of many indications that he was not a typical mafia boss. Certainly, he was no John Gotti, and he rejected all ideas that he should behave as such. There were no dedicated chauffeurs for him, no dazzling media heists, which turned the concept of discretion on its head, no basking in the lap of luxury. Seeming an improbable choice for a leader of an organized crime syndicate paradoxically assured he was a "Teflon Don" in his own right, innocuous against the backdrop of preconceived notions of what his position might entail. In this, he had garnered much admiration from like-minded men, but also scathing contempt from those who blindly valued tradition despite its outdated purpose.

Sandor had let AWOL take the wheel, and this very well may have been the first indication that this night would be an anomaly. Something abnormal and unknowable was pressing in on them. No amount of front seat duets to kick up high spirits could tame it, whatever itwas. Despite this strange sense of otherworldly claustrophobia, Bronn counted himself lucky to be here, for a good many reasons. He considered his place in the back seat of the car, next to Sandor, to be an uncommonly generous gesture from a man who never quite believed in handing out second chances.

Sobriety had been a snap back to reality for Bronn, and gracelessness was expunged just as swiftly. After Sandor left for the Martinez meeting without him yesterday, Bronn had hurled into the toilet the contents of his stomach and imagined it was a cleansing of his wits as much as his body. It was then he went to putting himself back to rights. In the shower, he scrubbed his skin raw, and outside the shower, he shaved the scruff from off his face. He combed out the tangled mess of his hair and donned a fresh pair of clothes. When he caught sight of himself in the mirror, he laughed out loud at the reflection, which, despite all the trouble he had gone through, still looked like utter shit. His amusement waned when his voice, rasping on a chuckle, sounded foreign to his own ears, so muddled was his sense of self.

With those same ears to the ground late last evening, Bronn had heard about this morning's meeting and had shown up, clearheaded for perhaps the first time in the past three months. When drowning in a sea of alcohol and grief, he was likely to hit rock bottom, eventually. The novelty of rock bottom is the foothold it provides, a place to finally push off of in order to rise back to the top. Why else would recovering tortured souls sing its praises with a masochistic glint to their eyes, as if speaking of some long-lost lover who had done them wrong; but oh, how they enjoyed the pain! So thoroughly the heart aches for another dose of that perverse sweetness – in love with the darkness, but masquerading around in the light.

When Bronn finally hit rock bottom, he felt as if he had collapsed there. There was no push, no fight to rise, no resilience or sudden impulse for survival. He had no desire to live in the light and instead took comfort in darkness. He existed without purpose, floating somewhere in limbo, waiting for a hand to pierce through and pull him out.

The men had greeted him with nods, and a few gave him a clap on the back, but none so much as muttered a word to him. They would not be the first to speak to their disgraced underboss. That was Sandor's duty, and Sandor had donned that familiar shade of red about his face, the one that meant anger slowly rolled through his veins. The man's jaw set in a line, so sharp it could likely cut glass, as Bronn stood before him, hands tucked behind his back and chest pushed out.

It was then that Bronn had quietly requested a private word with Sandor at his convenience, and the man merely laughed, leaning back in his chair with a smugness that Bronn hadn't been on the receiving end of in quite some time. Ultimately, Sandor refused and ordered Bronn to leave. Bronn had persisted, though, and disgraced himself even further when he had nearly begged for an opportunity to hang on the outskirts of the room for the meeting. Annoyance finally caught up with Sandor, and he begrudgingly approved Bronn's request with a wave of the hand.

Bronn no longer felt he was Sandor's equal. In fact, he doubted that Sandor even regarded him as worthy of a place amongst the capos and honored made men in the room. He was beneath them, cast out to some corner of the organization where men went to await their fate. Purgatory in the Underworld was a special kind of hell.

Out of the loop, both figuratively and quite literally, he stood with his back pressed against the brick wall, straining to hear what was being discussed. Bronn tried to piece together the stray pieces of information that met his ears. He had heard through the grapevine yesterday that Martinez and Sandor struck a deal. The house was in upheaval as men prepared for war. It felt as if the entire world was moving around him, while he stood still, nowhere to go and nothing to do. Bronn then realized he could no longer resign himself to inaction. He had to do something, be a part of this somehow.

Perhaps that was the push, the rise from the dredges, and the insistence of survival. His was mental preparation, toiling over all the ways to earn a spot in good graces just long enough to be of some utility. It was a crapshoot, but taking stock of his meager existence, he knew there was nothing at all he had to lose.

The meeting adjourned, and Bronn had expected Sandor to amble past him without sparing a glance or a word. Instead, Sandor waited until the other men had cleared out, and Bronn, despite better judgment, stayed behind. When Sandor approached him, he did not speak, clearly not for the lack of wanting, but rather, words seemed to have escaped the man. They stood together in uneasy silence until Sandor sighed, combing his fingers through the length of his hair.

"You'll ride out with me."

It was as much a command – forceful and willed towards blithe indifference – as it was an honored invitation. Bronn had nodded in agreement, and Sandor said nothing before walking away.

In the backseat, the sun had long since been swallowed by the western horizon just outside of his window. Of the many places Bronn had traveled, none were so wholly disconcerting and sinister as the deserts of Nevada. The land itself felt cursed. The hardships of those long departed soaked into the earth and seeped right back out to haunt the shadows. There was an unnatural sense of nothingness. Wide-open spaces were full of troubling woes and horrific visions. It was suffocating despite the appearances of barrenness. Bronn had always gotten the sense that, when the sun went down on the desert land, all bets were off. Something odd and ominous ruled the night.

Dashboard lights now illuminated the car, rendering everything a silhouette. AWOL and Pete chatted in the front seat, chuckling about some inside joke that only they could find humor in.

Pete was sent into wild laughter, as he was apt to. High pitched and infectious, the man found humor in a good many things. His curly hair had been pushed out of his face by a pink headband, which he claimed gave him luck. It was a parting gift of the only goomah he had taken in recent memory. Believing him too eccentric to provide the glamorous mafia doll lifestyle most goomahs craved, the woman had moved on from Pete to greener pastures in the arms of a made man from Lorenzo's crew. Pete had been happy to snatch the headband and surrender the girl.

Bronn often wondered if Pete pulled these stunts to make mafia life more bearable, for him and for the others. When doom and gloom clung to the organization, Pete could be counted on to dissipate souring moods and flaring tempers with his bizarre sense of humor. And perhaps for this reason, Sandor not only tolerated, but also welcomed Pete's bouts of goofiness, which fell in contrast to the somber seriousness that he, himself, abided by. Time to time, Sandor could even be caught chuckling at Pete's forays into nonsense. Bronn imagined this was why Sandor opted to ride with AWOL and Pete.

As Pete and AWOL drifted into steady conversation with one another, they appeared to Bronn as a reflection of his and Sandor's past, through the looking glass of times when everyone was whole. They had nothing figured out back then, but nothing was lost either, gaping and disjointed, as it was now. Bronn looked to Sandor, who must have known he was being watched. The corner of his mouth twitched, and his body went rigid. He continued to stare straight ahead though. The length of his hair, covered to his ears by a black beanie, framed the features of his face, and the dark ends disappeared against the black of his jacket.

"About yesterday..." Bronn began on a murmur, as if to garner as much privacy as he could.

His voice faded as he realized he didn't quite know what to say. When the proper words wouldn't come to him, he grew frustrated.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I said and how I acted."

It was all he knew to say, and he hoped it would be enough to right all the wrongs that had been done. The alcohol had blinded him to the extent of all that was said, but Bronn remembered the harder hits of certain words, the ones that were likely to have left their mark. Remorse had come caving in on him as soon as he gathered his faculties once more. He knew enough to know he should be sorry.

The unpleasant silence that had settled between Bronn and Sandor was interrupted by AWOL bursting into sudden laughter at something Pete said, yet another inside joke of some sort. From his place in the backseat, Bronn studied AWOL's reflection in the rear-view mirror, through which he could see the way the man's eyes crinkled in sheer delight. AWOL's raucous laughter subsided to soft chuckles when he lifted his eyes to the mirror and caught sight of Bronn staring at him. He did a double take – eyes settling on the road momentarily before glancing once more to Bronn through the mirror. By the reflection, AWOL seemed to have sensed Bronn's distress and quieted then, delight now replaced with concern.

Sandor drummed his fingers on his knee and looked out the window, though there was nothing to see out in the abyss of night. No moonlight, no view, just red, dead desert, masked in a black shroud. The man turned his gaze towards the front of the car, and a smile crept across his lips.

"You remember that time I got shit-canned wasted and decked an off-duty police officer at a bar?"

Of all the things Bronn had expected Sandor to say, this certainly was not one of them. It seemed the man wasn't immune to nostalgic recollections inspired by the front-seat duo, no more than Bronn, himself, was. The question was obscure, though he remembered that evening very well. It was the first time he had lost his cool with Sandor, the first time he found himself caring one way or another what happened to the out-of-control kid Alberto had taken under his wing. Somehow that kid, bad attitude and unchecked temper, had gotten under Bronn's skin, seeping in through the pores.

"I remember bailing you out of jail that night," Bronn answered, still befuddled. "I remember you getting pissed because you called Johnny to come get you, not me. You were just a kid then. Barely nineteen."

Barely nineteen, stronger than most and smarter than all, Sandor had always done what was asked of him. He acted out only in those times when the reality of his situation caught up with him – orphaned and alone, save a little sister who had been done dirty in the worst possible way by the system meant to shelter her. Only in those times did Sandor feel helpless, spinning out of control and fighting like hell for something to hold on to.

"You laid in to me about getting into trouble over stupid shit," Sandor reminisced. "You said I had a lifetime ahead of me for run-ins with the law and not to fill my record up with bullshit misdemeanors and slaps on the wrist."

"I'm surprised you remember that." Bronn cast a glance towards Sandor, one rich with fondness. "I don't remember you listening to a damn thing I had to say back then." Crossed arms and clamped fists was all Bronn remembered of Sandor that night. Silent and brooding, he had stormed off without so much as a "thank you".

"I heard every word you said." A laugh rolled from Sandor's lips, slow to be savored. "And I knew you were right. I just didn't want to admit it. I was an arrogant bastard in those days. Still am sometimes."

Smile faded, Sandor lifted his eyes to Bronn, and the sudden import was enough to startle him. The car had come to a stop, but Bronn did not bother to study their surroundings. Instead, his attentions remained on Sandor, even as AWOL and Pete removed themselves from the vehicle.

"You know why I wanted you as my number two, Bronn?" Sandor asked on a hushed breath, although there were none to hear their exchange.

"I'm sure you've told me before," he replied, "but I can't say I remember." It seemed to him that his and Sandor's arrangement – underboss and boss – had always just  _been._ Bronn couldn't quite remember what it felt like prior to that.

"You call me on my shit, and you've never been afraid to do it." Sandor quieted, shifting where he sat. "I can accept your apology for the things you said yesterday that were flat out wrong. I think you know what those things are."

With a pointed look and one raised eyebrow, Sandor allowed for a cadence of silence, awaiting a rebuttal. Bronn nodded his head, though, no argument on his end. They both seemed to simultaneously sigh, grateful to gloss over the grittier details of yesterday's exchange.

"I can also swallow my pride and admit you were right about some things you said, though, too," Sandor continued. "After what happened with Mirabelle, I went off the deep end, and you were there to try to stop me, even though you were going through the same hell I was."

Another moment of silence commenced, and the memories of his own hours in the darkness seemed to afflict Sandor then. The man held no wayward fondness for rock bottom, no appreciative commemoration.

"I haven't been there for you like I should have, Bronn. For that, I'm sorry. Now, it's my turn to stop you from self-destructing, to pull your ass out of the hole you've got yourself in."

The dashboard lights had been replaced with headlights as the other cars in their convoy pulled in around them. In the luminance, he caught Sandor's stare. There was warmth there, such a rare thing to encounter in a man as hardened and reserved as him. And in yet another anomaly of the evening, he seemed to be pleading with Bronn as well, and when he spoke, his words were dressed in a desperate sort of emphasis.

"You can't keep going on like this, man. You just can't. I want you around. I need you around."

When Sandor turned to Bronn, it was made clear that they were no longer speaking to one another as boss and underboss. Left alone in the car, they seemed to have shed their roles, forgetting the purpose of this outing for a time. What was left of them was what they had always been and what they would be after this night was done.

With a wan smile, Bronn nodded his head. It was reassurance Sandor was looking for, an affirmation that Bronn would be alright in the end. Bronn would not lie to the man, and so he offered what he could and hoped it would be enough.

"No matter what happens tonight, if I see you on the other side or not, we're brothers until the end, Sandor. I want you to know that."

Sandor had been the first and only one to pierce through the veil, a hand reaching in to pull Bronn to the surface towards the light. With the ball in Bronn's court, the question lingered in some morbid place of his mind: did he want to go to the light? Was the fight for life worth it in the end? What exactly did he have to go back to should he survive to see morning?

The answers would have to be sorted out another day, if there was another day for him. For now, the men were gathering and waiting for their leaders. He and Sandor would have to fall into their roles once more, and put up appearances for perhaps one last time.

Before they did, though, Bronn pulled Sandor into a heavy and strong embrace, patting him squarely on the back.

"Brothers," Sandor affirmed on something near a whisper before letting go, slipping into the stern reserve of the Moriarti boss once more.

When Bronn and Sandor stepped from the car, it seemed their sentiment was shared amongst all the Moriarti men who had gathered. They had pulled off on a dried-up lot of vacant space. Whatever it was before, the desert had claimed it, creeping in with sand and rock. Their numbers grew, a dozen-and-a-half cars all parked amongst one another, headlights left on to offer light where there was none.

To an outsider, it might very well look like a family reunion of sorts. A collective rejoicing seemed to have taken over as men rediscovered old friends who had been shuffled about to different crews throughout the years, clapping one another on the back and sharing rounds of laughter. If not for the caches of weapons being passed about, it would not appear as though they were going to war. Each man picked their poison from open trunks, opting for whatever felt best in their hands, comparing their choices to the men next to them.

As more men showed up, conversations became increasingly gregarious, and the energy flowing between all of them was bizarrely intoxicating, blotting out the shadows of shared fear. It wasn't often that their strength in numbers were demonstrated in this way, crews that were separated by hundred of miles coming together in one place. It was a sight to behold, and when Bronn searched out Sandor, he found the man observing his masses with awestruck consideration. This was his organization, his to command and to lead. It was made real and tangible now. He could count their heads and quantify his support, those that would fight for him. With that realization also came the sudden awareness that some of these men, perhaps many of them, would not make it out alive. Yes, they would fight for him, but how many would die for the cause?

That morose thought did not linger, as more cars arrived, kicking up dust in this valley of nothingness they found themselves in. The vehicles arranged themselves in haphazard rows opposite of where the Moriarti men had settled, and Sandor lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the glaring headlights as he stepped forward. Bronn fell in by his side. One by one, the men quieted behind them. AWOL found his place on Sandor's other side with Pete next to him. Murdoch and Go-Go rounded out the last of the capos, who similarly pushed to the front of the fray.

Silence fell amongst the Moriarti as they watched cartel men pour from vehicles that were decidedly better suited for desert terrain. The cartel men were a somber bunch, severe faces and moving shadows in the night. A small man emerged into the sphere of light afforded by the headlights blazing in the darkness. Another man accompanied him, much taller and younger in comparison, with arms crossed about a broad, barreled chest.

When the small man came forward, he offered his hand to Sandor in a gesture of welcome, which Sandor received with a firm shake.

"Sandor Clegane," the small man, Miguel Martinez, greeted placidly.

"Good to see you again, Miguel," Sandor responded before warily eying the hulking figure by Martinez's side. The small man followed Sandor's eyes with a tight-lipped and knowing smile.

"This is my second in command, Alejandro Cardona," Martinez informed. "You may remember him from yesterday, although I don't think you two were formally introduced."

Bronn watched as Sandor and Alejandro nodded by way of greeting, equal amounts of wariness occurring on either end of the exchange. It seemed, much like Alberto, Miguel Martinez did not fare well in war and had chosen to stay behind. Bronn had heard that Sandor put up a fight about it, but found Martinez unrelenting in this matter. In the end, Miguel had won out, but agreed to send his trusted second-hand in his place.

The man – Alejandro – matched Sandor in height and build, as well as his boorish demeanor, which was a rare feat to accomplish. Bronn found he could not stop staring at the man, as uneasiness seemed to come pouring in. As his eyes remained on Alejandro, the word "ethereal" had come to his mind, and Bronn found it to be a rather bizarre way to describe a man like Alejandro. Yet, nothing else quite seemed to capture the way he carried himself. The man's form was illusory and framed in a halo of light.

Of the forces to be reckoned with, Sandor was surely one, but so, too, was the man staring back at him, just as faceless in the night darker than most. They were two scarred megaliths looming in the shadows. A thick line of darkened skin ran diagonally across Alejandro's face, and his left eye was nonexistent – only glossy, puckered skin remained, healed over the gaping hole.

In mafia life, missing body parts held a sort of esoteric meaning. Symbolic maiming was a rare art form still practiced by the particularly ruthless. Bronn wondered what Alejandro might have done to have his eye snatched right from its socket. He remembered, then, that cartel men amended this sort of Hammurabi justice to meet their own needs, and men such as the Moriarti turned up their noses at the barbarism of it all.

Yet they were all the same – murderers, criminals, former and future convicts. Mistrust could easily disrupt the unsteady truce between these two factions of lawless men. Instead, there was an emerging and collective understanding of their similarities. It was the same understanding Bronn had now and the same one Sandor seemed to have staring at his Mexican doppelgänger. They all shared the same proclivities for a life of violence, and they had come here tonight for the same purpose. That purpose would unite them in battle. Predilections towards judgment and mistrust would have to be set-aside for the time being.

"How far do we have to go from here?" Sandor asked Alejandro.

The man swiveled ever so slightly to his right in seamless gliding motions, the grace of which was at tremendous odds to his large frame, yet another anomaly of this man and of this night. One long arm pulled away from his chest to point to the darkened ridge of craggy earth piercing through the landscape.

"Over that hill. Twenty minutes, I'd say," the man estimated. When he spoke, his voice was deep, but seemed far off, an echo from somewhere else. Bronn had to strain to hear.

After considering Alejandro's response, Sandor swept his eyes over the line of his most trusted men – Bronn and the capos – gathered around him. He considered each of them in turn and drew in a deep breath before he spoke.

"Are we ready?" he questioned.

One by one, heads bobbed up and down, assuring their leader that, whether they were truly ready or not, they would follow him to war, regardless, brothers until the very relayed the response, turning to Alejandro and Martinez and giving a curt nod.

Spinning on his heel, Alejandro turned to his own men, clapping his hands together as he went.

"Vámonos!" he shouted sharply, and his men worked like a well-oiled machine, climbing back into appointed vehicles and firing up the engines. Bronn gave a similar command to the Moriarti men, who worked just as seamlessly.

"Good luck, my friend," Martinez bade Sandor. "When this is all over with, we celebrate."

The leader of the Caballero cartel patted Sandor on the back before disappearing back in the direction he had come. Bronn and Sandor followed Alejandro to the old Jeep he drove, some artifact of the 1960s, chipped teal paint and rusted-out brush guard. The convoy commenced, trailing off into the cold night. The roads they were being led down waned away in gradual decay. Many were long forgotten relics of the days when sun-seekers came in hoards to inhabit the harsh lands of Nevada, willing their way across the desert and leaving suburbia in their wake.

Some places, though, were simply abandoned and surrendered to elements. Gone away now, the route on which they ambled down – bobbing and swaying with every minute rise and fall of the landscape – was crumbling, and Bronn wondered if, perhaps these were even roads at all. Miles back, they had turned off of the rotting remains of a state road, and it seemed, now the flora had been beaten back to make way for the vehicles that pressed through brush and rolled over rocky earth. He could see how the cartel men favored practicality over luxury. No doubt, the Mercedes were getting torn to hell, and he imagined that the cartel men found unexpected mirth in this subtle jab at the mafia fat cats. They had to get their blows in where they could, and Bronn couldn't quite say that he blamed them.

By the way Alejandro casually slung one wrist over the steering wheel and softly whistled a tune to himself – dissonant and menacing – this trek was not unfamiliar to him. The man considered it with the same blasé regard that most people reserve for their daily commute, motions arising fluid and automatic, somehow committed to memory.

The entire whole of the situation seemed to have unnerved Sandor. From the back, Bronn could see he had taken to gripping the handle above his door, back peeled away from his seat as he bit his lip with each rhythm and roll of the vehicle.

Alejandro had broken his reserve when he happened to catch sight of this. A loud and heavy laugh erupted from the man's lips as he slapped an open palm hard against Sandor's back.

"City boy," he japed. The hardened features of his face pulled back in a grotesque manner to form a fearsome smile.

Ignoring the gesture, Sandor kept his eyes straight ahead, searching out the darkness with unwavering focus. His discontent was easy enough to decipher, though, etched on his face with a scowl, fearsome in its own right.

As the brush grew thicker around them, branches poking and scraping along the side of the vehicle, Bronn scooted forward in the seat. The rustling of discarded cans and wrappers on the floorboard was enough to rouse Sandor's attention, and he discreetly glanced over his shoulder at Bronn.

It seemed that he had puzzled out Bronn's intent to say something to Alejandro, to ask where exactly it was that they were being taken, and when they could expect to get there. They had already driven for well over the estimated twenty minutes. Elbow still resting on the center console, Sandor faintly lifted his hand, as if to silence Bronn before he could speak. Sandor was watching Alejandro's movements, studying the man intently. When Alejandro flicked off the headlights, the car was plunged into darkness.

"Our destination is just down this hill," Alejandro informed, preempting the confusion and alarm he must have sensed from Bronn and Sandor both. "No use in announcing our presence."

The lights that had lingered in the rear view mirror from the cars behind them were snuffed out as well, and they inched to a stop in slow, grinding movements. Peering out the window as his eyes adjusted to the dark, Bronn could see that they were, indeed, perched on top of the hill at the point where its slope was shallowest. The cars behind them packed in, all turning off the headlights, and the men within climbing out.

Outside the car, Sandor and Bronn stepped to the edge of the hill and surveyed the ground below. Some five hundred feet away from the base of the hill was what appeared to be an industrial business park. Although it was not large, it housed six or seven facilities, and, like everything else they had encountered this evening, it was decrepit, by the looks of it.

"That's it?" Bronn questioned, squinting his eyes to the sight below.

"This is one of the Severelli's business fronts," Sandor informed, as Alejandro came to stand next to them, hands resting on his hips.

"A courier service," Alejandro added. "They've had it for years."

"And how is this going to work, us blazing up the place?" Bronn pressed, although he knew that the details had already been hammered out. He was, perhaps, a bit late to question things now, but he voiced his concerns anyway. "The last thing we need is some poor, fucking sap burning the midnight oil to blow the whistle on our little show down."

Still eying their destination below, Bronn heard a grumbling laugh and could have sworn it was Sandor's. He lifted his eyes, expecting to see a smile on Sandor's face and an explanation for the sudden, misplaced merriment. Instead, it was Alejandro who was smiling and who spoke.

"No. There are no others," the man chuckled. "Most businesses here went under, and the ones that remained figured out their neighbors were mobbed up, so they moved on."

Bronn looked to the complex below, but could find no source for Alejandro's amusement. There were seven buildings, Bronn counted. A few thousand square feet a piece by his best guess. They were at a disadvantage. A  _huge_ logistical cluster fuck lay at the bottom of the hill. In all his years as a wise guy and now a boss, Bronn could not recall a time when he felt as uncomfortable as he did now. A knot had formed in the pit of his stomach, alerting him to something he couldn't quite decipher. He shot Sandor a look, one that must have betrayed every one of his sordid thoughts and sudden reservations.

"I know," Sandor assured, although Bronn hadn't a chance to say anything. Sandor was working to assuage all those unspoken worries, the same ones he shared perhaps. "We'll just have to sweep the place the best we can."

Bronn thought to pull Sandor aside, to assure him it wasn't too late to turn back now. He bit his tongue. Even he wasn't so stupid to think that they could actually back out of this. They had made a deal with a cartel, one that wasn't going to take kindly to broken promises.

Bronn turned to look over his shoulder at the men gathering behind them. There were eighty or so in number, ten men to man each building if need be.  _We're too few in numbers._ Did they have to leave so many of their men behind? He understood the need to hold down the home front, so to speak, but as it stood, this was a numbers game. The side with more men would prevail. The only thing working in their benefit was the element of surprise and their cartel alliance. Could the latter be depended upon, though? Their joining of forces was still in its infancy, and when push came to shove, would the cartel men bail if the going got tough?

Alejandro shifted, and Bronn realized the man had been staring at him, as he grew impatient, seeming somehow privy to all that Bronn had been thinking.

"Down this side." Alejandro pointed towards the northern edge of the hill. "Along that tree line. We come in through there in the back. Their building is that one on the corner." Both Sandor and Bronn followed the man's finger mapping out the direction they would take. "As of a few days ago, they haven't taken up any of the other facilities."

"A lot can change in a few days," Sandor cautioned, voice gruff and trailing off as he stared at the buildings below.

"Choices have to be made," Alejandro countered firmly. "We can thin our numbers, sweeping every building, or come in full force to the building the Severelli are known to occupy."

What the man meant, but did not say, was that there was nothing left for Sandor to do but to trust him, to put faith in Alejandro's instincts as if they were his own. Bronn knew Sandor and understood the deal he had struck had likely been akin to selling his soul to the devil. The cartel men were now a necessary evil, one they had no choice but to depend on.

Sandor studied Alejandro before turning over his shoulder, motioning his head for the capos to come forward. AWOL, Pete, Go-Go, and Murdoch filed in, forming a circle that included Bronn and Alejandro.

"We start with their main stronghold," Sandor began, pointing to its location down below. "It will drive the others out if they hear shit going down. And if they don't come out and decide to hide away in one of the other buildings, they will have proven themselves cowards, and cowards die easiest anyway."

Smug as ever and menacing too, Alejandro huffed a laugh at that before calling over a handful of cartel men. Without prompt or warning, they led the way towards the path they would take. Sandor and Bronn followed, and the capos settled in with their men. Sandor had made his way directly behind Alejandro, and Bronn watched as the two effortlessly communicated with one another, though they did not speak a word. They seemed to have achieved a certain understanding with one another – impossibly intrinsic, given the short amount of time having interacted with one another. Its origins were bizarre and inexplicable, though neither seemed to notice or question it.

One foot over the other, careful not to call attention to themselves or roll an ankle on a rock, they began their retreat down the steady slope of hill. They lurked in the shadows, thankful for the way the clouds had come pouring in and blotted out the light of the moon up above. They slipped between trees, gliding in deliberate movements. Somehow they managed to move as a cohesive whole, and it was something to behold – deadly, sinister, and taking on the very nature of this night, an anomaly amongst all the rest.

They reached the bottom of the hill, far enough away from their destination to go unnoticed, but close enough to iron out the plans of their attack. As it turned out, there were four entrances through which they could easily infiltrate the building. The men were split off into groups, each group pressing in towards their designated entrance, crouching in the darkness as they moved as quickly and quietly as they could.

They would sweep their way through the inside, fighting towards the middle and seeing who turned up alive at the end of it. One end of the building was primarily warehouse and storage, garages for vehicles and equipment. The other end was office space. Each posed its own challenges and dangers. Bronn remained with Sandor and Alejandro, their group pushing in from the main entrance, which was perhaps the trickiest to maneuver given the floor to ceiling glass windows making up the front of the building. Backs pressed against the wall, they waited. The faint glow of Sandor's watch hovered in Bronn's vision. The men would come in at precisely the same predetermined time.

"One minute," Sandor murmured, still staring at his timepiece.

Bronn watched Sandor, huffing out breaths that turned to grey puffs of cold air. It occurred to him only then to wonder what Sandor might be feeling. The last of his kin by blood was somewhere within this rotted out building, stalking the shadows like some supernatural force, more monster than man. Would Sandor falter when faced with his brother? Would he succumb to pity or fear? Or was it anticipation that remained at the forefront, a longing for resolution of the nightmare they'd been forced to live through?

"Thirty seconds."

Would he resurrect Mirabelle's memory in the moments before taking his brother's life? Would he suffer through the details of that pain to look the beast in the eye and watch the miserable life leave him? And afterwards, left alone in the world, would he find the peace he had chased after for so long, or would he be left in a different shade of darkness, one he hadn't anticipated?

"Five seconds."

Was he afraid? And if so, what could he possibly fear more than what fate had already delivered him? Was it his own death?

"Four."

Did he understand that he could very well lose this battle? Did he know that this could be his last night? Was that why everything felt so anomalous and strange, a waking dream?

"Three."

Of the Clegane brothers, one of them was courting death, and one of them would meet that mistress on the other side of the veil. Did Sandor know it might be him? Was he ready to lose?

"Two."

Right before they commenced what they had waited so long to accomplish, Bronn realized he should be asking himself these same questions as much as he should ask them of Sandor. Was he ready to die tonight?

"One."

In the moment right before Sandor called out the time, he looked to Bronn, and in an instant, Bronn understood with a keen and saddened awareness that Sandor had pondered the same question for himself. It lingered in his eyes that lost a bit of their resilience to fear. Sandor could not lose tonight. It was not an option he had made room for in his life, and yet he seemed to acknowledge the possibility that this might very well be the end.

"Go."

Glass shattered. From behind, Bronn was being pushed in, blessedly unscathed by the jagged hole that was their makeshift entrance. They swept through like they knew they would, but an oddity occurred. The bullets and bedlam they expected did not come, and instead, everything remained quiet as a crypt. They continued on through a lobby, past a receptionist's desk with no necessary accoutrements in sight, and into an open area that would have been crammed with cubicles were this building used for its intended purpose.

Instead, the room had been gutted, all the way up to the drop ceiling that was missing its tiles. Above swung fluorescent lights that had been set to flickering as Alejandro turned them on. Both Sandor and Alejandro were visibly disturbed. Both cursed beneath their breath, although Bronn could not understand the Spanish Alejandro was speaking. Surveying the men about the room, Bronn saw that they all shared in this sentiment, a gradient of confusion, worry, anger, and every combination in between.

Boards hoisted up on saw horses were arranged down the length of the room. Bronn watched as Sandor swiped his fingers across one of the boards. His face hardened as he rubbed white powder between his fingertips and thumb. Beneath the table, boxes had been taped up and neatly stowed away. In an instant, Sandor pulled a box out from beneath the table and ripped into it. The satisfaction at having found what he was looking for dissipated to give way to a panicked sort of rage, one that silenced the room.

Rolling up on his toes to catch a glimpse inside the box, Bronn saw orderly packages of more white powder, tucked together in rows.

"They've been distributing for you," Sandor seethed. One hard kick and the box had tumbled over, spilling kilos of blow across the floor. "I'm not convinced this isn't your business front, a distribution center you put them up in."

Sandor stared down Alejandro, irate at all the worries and what-ifs suddenly manifesting in real-time.

"What would you have us do?" Alejandro fired back. "Call up your brother, tell him to stop the push and shut down business? The Severelli have ties to us. You already knew that. Those ties are severed tonight. If they caught a whiff that we were going to pull the rug out from underneath them, it would have sent them running for the hills."

"And where are they now? In the hills?" Sandor began pacing as he ran one hand over his face before resting it on his hip.

"We made a deal with you, and we do not go back. This is the location. They were here yesterday."

It seemed Alejandro matched Sandor in more things than one. The two men mutually seethed in confusion and anger, launching it back and forth at one another. It was fuel to the mistrust resurrected between them.

The room boiled over with the steady onslaught of tension. Guns went up in the air as men entered through an adjoining hallway, terminating in the back corner of the room. A sigh of relief could be heard as the group of men led by AWOL came pouring in.

"The back was clear," AWOL informed, face flush and chest heaving. He had broken into a sweat, though the night was chilly.

"What is this? A fucking set-up?" Sandor stepped to Alejandro, but his voice had quieted.

"Why would I bring my men into this if that were the case?" Alejandro shook his head, brow folded as he glared at Sandor. "How do I know you don't have a rat in your ranks?"

"We don't have ties to the Severelli," Sandor shouted, anger taking hold.

"Bullshit! Marco and Vinny. Were those not your men?" Alejandro echoed Sandor's sentiment of heated fury.

Back and forth, they went, and the eyes of all the men followed the sound to and fro between their leaders.

"They were long dead before yesterday,  _ese."_ The insult glided off Sandor's tongue with ease and left Alejandro red in the face, his good eye bulging as his jaw stiffened.

"How do you know you don't have more men like Marco and Vinny? Which one of them is it? That man there?" Alejandro pointed to one of the men who had just entered the room – Zulu, it happened to be. The kid eased backwards on his feet, wide-eyed and confused. "Or him?" He pointed to yet another Mortiarti man, picking them out at random to demonstrate his point. "How do you know for sure these men are as loyal as you think they are?"

Pound for pound, blow for blow, Alejandro and Sandor matched one another as their tempers flared. As Bronn thought to intervene, he felt a nudge against his shoulder.

"Shit's going down, man." At first he thought AWOL was simply stating the obvious, but the man was shoving his phone in Bronn's face, forcing him to look at the screen. Bronn squinted at the text message, reading it slowly, once and then twice to make sure he had gotten it right.

 **_Falconi, Half-Stroke, their men bailed. They left us, goomahs, and mattress chicks behind. Sixteen men left. Can_ ** **_'_ ** **_t hold the place on our own. Need more of you ASAP._ **

"I've got to tell Clegane. Something's not right. This shit ain't right." AWOL was visibly unnerved, tucking his phone back into his pocket and pressing his palms against his forehead as he breathed deeply to calm himself. Bronn found panic in the man's eyes, and it was a seemingly odd reaction. AWOL was normally unaffected by these sorts of mishaps, thriving in chaos and hitting his stride when everything was falling apart.  _He's got a girl there,_ Bronn realized suddenly.  _One he cares about._

AWOL awaited an answer, a direction in the matter. Shifting and swaying side to side, his unsettled bobbing back and forth was yet another anomaly, another sign that, indeed, something was not right.

"No," Bronn shook his head in response, suddenly afraid for the first time. The hairs on his arm stood on end, and the air seemed colder than before. "You tell Disco he needs to hold it down. If we sacrifice men here, we're hurting the cause. We've got enough to deal with."

If he would come to regret that decision, a decision made in fear for his own life, Bronn would never surely know. Before he had a chance to mull it over, to change his mind, to inform Sandor of yet another snag in their seemingly meticulous plans, gunfire rang out.

It was one shot, but it landed between the eyes of a made man standing a few feet to Bronn's left, someone from Pete's crew. The man slumped to the floor, instantly rendered faceless from the gore of his injuries and dead in a pool of bone and blood. More shots came, and more bodies hit the ground: dead men, men scurrying beneath tables to gather their wits before firing back, cartel men, made men. They all hit the floor in a maddened scramble, taking cover the best they could.

In the end, Sandor and Alejandro had both been right, each of their instincts dead on. This was indeed a set-up, one orchestrated by the Severelli. And there was a rat, in the cartel or in the mafia. Somewhere along the line, someone had tipped the Severelli off.

* * *

Alberto had stuffed the women in some side room whose purpose was unknown to Sansa. In a house so large and one he lived in almost entirely alone save for the past six months, the man had likely struggled to find rhyme or reason for such an excess of space. There were sitting rooms, one in every color he favored – blue, green, burgundy, and cream – and lavishly decorated to his tastes. There were reading rooms stocked full of dusty books with yellowed pages, then music rooms, smoking rooms, and rooms of memories, some closed off if the remembrances contained within were too painful to bear. There was a purpose for each room except the one Sansa and the other women had squeezed themselves into.

Was it a closet perhaps? No, it was too big, but it housed empty boxes belonging to long ago discarded appliances, half used rolls of wrapping paper, misshapen shoes, old and caked with dirt, Tupperware stained from marinara sauce.

Most people have dedicated junk drawers in their kitchen. Sansa's mother certainly had one. Things that could not be properly sorted into their rightful place were tossed in some catch-all space. In Moriarti's house, there was an entire junk room, which he seemed to make great use of. The handle end of a fishing pole was digging into her back, and Sansa wondered when Alberto had ever fished. Maybe that was just it, though; this was his room of items that might prove useful in his future life. One day, he would retire from the mafia scene to some pristine lake with his fishing pole in hand, dirty shoes, and ratty Tupperware collection, prepared to shower his future friends with neatly wrapped gifts tucked in a box belonging to a blender circa 1987.

Twenty women – not precious enough to be taken from the mansion with all the others -– were lined up like sardines in this little room, this room of ordinary items. Although Alberto had fretfully insisted this was where they should remain, Sansa worried whether or not this was, indeed, the safest place for them to be. If whomever Moriarti was so certain was coming for them - Severelli or someone else entirely, she did not know – actually came, they would find a treasure trove of frightened women huddled together, nothing in the way of weapons to protect themselves beyond a half-empty box of plastic cutlery. Even then, all that remained were spoons. And what were they to do with that: threaten to gouge out the eyes of cold-blooded killers? They were twenty women, twenty sitting ducks awaiting a fate that seemed promised to them now.

In his panic, Moriarti had not been thinking clearly. His mind was a mess, not unlike his junk room. There was no kinder way to put it. His decisions were frantic, though he clung to his calm, outward reserve. Sansa could not help but notice he had even dressed the part of his former self, boss of the organization – blue suit jacket with brass buttons, grey pants to match his grey hair parted to the side, and one gold ring on his finger. Even in the face of danger, Moriarti was a man of pride and conviction.

Yet, Sansa could see the fear in him, though. It was a sickness – infectious and spreading rapidly. It was unsettling in a way she hadn't anticipated. Looking upon his eyes gone cold in fear and a strange sort of resignation, she watched as he realized that this very well might be the midnight hour of his organization, his legacy. The last thing Sansa had heard, before being sealed off in the closet where the fearful whimpering of the other women swallowed the silence, was Moriarti's command that yet another call be made to the others, Sandor in particular. It was the sounding of an alarm, a decision that would not have been made unless something truly terrible was on the near horizon. Whether Sandor answered that call and was commencing a retreat, she could not say with any measure of certainty.

The hidden room of Moriarti's secret treasures was now humid from shaky, hyperventilated breaths and salty tears. Sansa and Nina were the only ones rendered into a state of uncanny calm. Although they did not cry, that hardly meant they were not afflicted with the same worries. Sansa found no use in tears. Tears would not save their lives. Those coming for them would be brutal, and they would be ruthless. That much she had gathered, reading between the lines and intuiting what she could from Alberto.

Sansa edged closer to Nina, shifting as best as she could in the cramped space.

"I really don't think we should stay in here," she whispered softly and settled her eyes on Nina, who nodded in return.

"What are you thinking?" The woman chewed her lip, but her eyes danced with a fire that Sansa found somehow encouraging.

"This room is close to the kitchen." Sansa could remember the path they had taken to get here: through the kitchen and a door off the pantry, which was a room in its own right, then down a small cove of space and into this closet. "The hallway that separates the kitchen from the parlor leads to the basement, right?" she ventured on.

"Yeah, it does." Nina flashed a gap-toothed smile, flushed with a sense of relief. She had been on the same page all along, it seemed, only waiting for someone else to voice the suggestion first. "If we make it to the basement, we can go through the halls leading to the garage."

"Exactly," Sansa chimed. "If we need to hide, there are plenty of places. If we need to make a run for it, we can go out the garage. It's always dark on that side of the house, and they won't see us once we get down the edge of the hill that's there."

_They._

She had felt her voice grow weak on that one single word, drawn out and flattened. Was it the word itself or the implication?  _They_ were faceless, formless too.  _They_ had taken on the form of the unknowable. On the fringes of fear,  _they_ existed and proliferated in that darkened void of space where the imagination creates horrors long ago suppressed. It was where nightmares find their genesis.

_They. Who are they?_

Perhaps to some they were men, to others a conglomeration of forgotten fears: the wildness and cruelty of the night, the way it disguises awful and unknowable ends.

 _They_ were on their way.

Nina shuddered, all reprieve fleeing as her face dropped in worry. Her eyes went to the floor, the dread evident.

"We better get a move on soon. It's been quiet out there for too long."

Nina's admonition, strained with emergent panic, came as the women seemed to quiet. Her voice didn't need to be loud for them to hear. Gathered together with hardly enough space to move without elbowing the person next to them, the women could hear Nina just fine.

"What's going on?" Brigitta had overheard, and while she wasn't teary-eyed with fright like some of the others, she had still paled, and her slender frame was shivering despite the sweat dampening her forehead.

"I think it would be best if we didn't stay in here," Sansa soothed calmly. Sweet like a song though her voice was and accompanied with a gentle touch to the woman's arm, her reassurances were as good as useless. Brigitta's eyes flicked between Nina and Sansa, alternating between the two.

"What do you mean?" she demanded in flustered desperation. "Is something happening?"

By now, fat teardrops had run down Brigitta's pretty flushed cheeks, and her hands were coiled around Sansa's upper arms. Somehow she had convinced herself that Sansa was privy to some esoteric knowledge of what lie ahead, that she could somehow divine their fate. No sooner had Sansa scoffed at the idea than intrusive thoughts besieged her mind. They were accompanied by visions; ones that frightened her so thoroughly, she squeezed her eyes shut at their assault. To her supreme dismay, she continued to see, even in the darkness behind her eyes. As if viewing the scene from outside of her own body, she saw herself in the closet, eyes squeezed shut as she trembled, now, and she saw Brigitta too, eyes gone hollow into blackened, gaping holes.  _Some of us will die tonight. Some of us are marked for death._

So terrible were the visions, her eyes snapped open, and she forced herself to look at Brigitta. The woman's eyes were no longer grotesquely hollowed out, but instead there was something else stirring in Brigitta's eyes, a knowledge she was not supposed to have been burdened with.  _She knows,_ Sansa thought pitifully.  _She knows what's coming for her._

"Nothing is happening yet," Sansa managed meekly. "And maybe nothing will happen. I don't know."

She tried to quell the quivering of her voice. The undulating way in which she spoke had given her away, the cover of courage blown to pieces.

"Please," a woman in the back huffed with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. "Don't be fucking stupid. Shit's about to hit the fan."

The women shifted in unison, an ebb and tide as they were whipped up into yet another wave of frenzy and fear. Irritated by the careless worry suddenly inspired in the others as well as the fishing pole now pushing painfully into her rib, Sansa glowered at the woman who had just spoken.

"And when it does, do you want to be stuffed in this room, like a sacrifice for the slaughter? They'll kill us all if they find us here."

_They. God, who were they?_

Gaping at her as if she delighted in the gruesome possibilities of it all, the women had quieted, but it wasn't a contented silence. She had voiced the fear that reigned supreme amongst them all. She made it real then, stole it from the void which housed their nightmares and birthed it to life as though it were an abomination.

"She's right, ladies," Nina spoke up then. "We need to be somewhere where we can spread out, split up, or make a run for it."

The women now turned their attention to Sansa, looking to her for some semblance of guidance and direction.  _Lead. They want you to lead the way,_ she realized suddenly.

She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, the sudden attention alarming. By default, she seemed to have been put in charge, a duty she hadn't signed up for.  _You are his darling, his Queen,_ she reminded herself. The role seemed to come with certain responsibilities, certain expectations.  _But I'm only eighteen. I know nothing of the world._ By the way the women were staring at her, Sansa imagined they would not care. Of this group of women, not precious enough to be carried off to safety before all hell broke loose, she was being looked to as a leader, a source of comfort, of direction.

Sansa realized, then, the great tragedy of it all. These women  _were_  precious. In some way and to their men who had left them behind to ride out the storm, they were ordinary but precious.

"We can go through the kitchen and make it to the hallway that leads to the basement," she began shakily but gathering what strength she could. "We'll be much safer down there."

Every other woman nodded at the idea, while others shook their heads and lowered their eyes, too afraid to leave this space.

"The guys lock that door when they're not in the lounge," the same woman interjected again, the one hell bent on shooting down every idea that Sansa had.

Sansa never went to the basement lounge alone, not since she had come here so many months ago. She couldn't know whether or not the door was likely to be locked. She turned to look at Nina, who could speak on the matter.

"Sometimes they do. Not always," Nina shrugged her shoulders. When the room grew quiet and all eyes were on her once more, Sansa realized that she alone would be charged with finding out for certain.

Unbidden, she had shaken her head and stumbled back into the wall, not paying much mind to how the fishing pole jabbed painfully against her.

It was her idea. She had been the one to suggest it, and now she felt her knees weaken at the thought of going alone. It was a childlike fear, this fear of a basement, and the women would not understand. Her hands trembled, and her throat formed a lump, one that threatened tears.

Her grandmother had always insisted that it is people who are haunted, not houses. Houses are nothing but wood and brick. It's when you stick people inside them that they become a home, or perhaps, a hell on earth. Sansa had always felt that the Moriarti mansion was afflicted by a dark past - its ghosts the terrible memories of loss, of misery, of heartache. For Sansa, it all culminated in the basement lounge. She refused to ever venture down there again and had remained steadfast in this. She couldn't quite trace the origin of this particular fixation of fear. Much like the night itself, it crept in on her unknowingly. There were a great many places or things to which she could attach the trauma experienced the night of the Royce massacre and the days after. It was the basement lounge, though, that ultimately bore the load of that weight. It was the stage on which her nightmares played out; the place that housed the entities that seemed to haunt her, the same ones that only came out once the sun went down. They proliferated down there. To make matters worse, she had once heard screaming coming from the basement lounge in the dark days following Mirabelle's death. It had solidified the basement as her hell on earth.

No one spoke, and no one seemed to notice how she had likely paled to a color akin to milk, how her body shook, and her voice had grown frail. If they had, perhaps they would have gone with her or even for her. There were no volunteers, and she was painstakingly aware that time was not on their side.  _They_  would be here soon. She would have to go alone.

"I'll go down there," she asserted, though she could barely keep from doubling over from the sick feeling at the pit of her stomach. "If it's locked, I can probably still get in. Does anyone have a card on them? Credit card? Debit card?"

She scanned the faces of startled women, all looking at one another hoping that someone else could produce what Sansa was asking after.

"Here!" a voice cried out, pushing forward. It was Roxie, reaching between two women to hand Sansa a MasterCard. Nina let out an audible scoff, mumbling beneath her breath.

"You  _would_  have your fucking purse on you at a time like this."

Lifting a chiding stare to Nina, Sansa took the card from Roxie and secured it tightly in her grip. The women were staring at her again, waiting with bated breath for what was to come next. Sansa continued to wait, hopeful that they would see how dreadfully afraid she was. Too consumed by their own fright, they seemed not to notice the pained reluctance to which Sansa had succumb.

"Okay," she finally exhaled and closed her eyes. Her heart nearly stopped beating in her chest when she remembered the horrible visions that had accompanied the darkness the last time she closed her eyes.

This time, though, it was her mother she saw, strong and beautiful.  _Stay with me, mama. I can be as strong as you, but please stay with me._  She held on to the vision of her mother as long as she could, trying to will the woman to remain, but when she faded, Sansa opened her eyes once more. Somehow when she spoke, it was with a conviction that hadn't been there before. "You all stay here. I'll come back once I get in."

Outside of the junk room, the air was much colder. So much so, that her skin was blanketed in goosegumps as she felt through the darkness, fingertips ghosting along the wall. When she reached the end of the small alcove of space, she felt for the door leading into the pantry. It occurred to her she didn't know what she expected to find on the other side – canned goods in orderly rows or some demon poised to drag her to hell.

It was a strange thing, peculiar to be sure, to find herself grown into adulthood, and yet all those childhood fears had ultimately been justified all along. Could she have known then that the darkness housed unimaginable terrors and the thought of going to the basement would send her into a cold sweat, shivering like mad from head to toe and back up again, heart threatening to pound its way right out of her chest?

When she eased open the door of the pantry, she found it empty, save the food items. It was another sort of dread that hit her then, a replaying of past events and the distinct feeling that she was meant to relive past horrors.

 _I_ _'_ _m back where I began._

The thought came, and she nearly fell to her knees. It was déjà vu of the worst kind. Sansa stumbled into the rows of shelves and paid no mind to how her arm complained of the pain.

In the Royce mansion, Podrick had shoved her into the pantry, much like the one she was standing in now. She had been frantic then – confused, terrified, and with the near suffocating feeling that someone was waiting for her on the other side of the door. She had been correct in this feeling. Sandor had been waiting for her.

Her skin crawled, and her stomach burned, now, as that same sensation hit her with a force that left her reeling. The door leading to the kitchen was shut, and she wondered what was on the other side. It was the same uncanny notion that something was waiting for her, the same screaming of her instincts to run, to hide, to go back.

Spinning around, Sansa lurched back in the direction she had come, stumbling over her feet and into one of the shelves. A loud thud hit the floor, and a petrified yelp burst through her lips before she realized it was a can that had fallen.

Paralyzed with fear that she had given herself away, she waited for the monster to come barreling in. Long moments, nearly breathless with fear, she waited, but no one came. It was enough encouragement to bid her to shuffle forward as quietly as she could manage.

Sansa pulled the door open slowly, wincing with every creak it made on its hinges and stopping when there was just enough space for her to slip through, back pressed against the wall for the purchase she so desperately needed. From the faint light pouring through the kitchen window, she could now see there was no one on the other side. Sansa tip-toed across the kitchen, gliding down the length of the wall and sighing with the sweetness of relief as she heard the faint echo of voices from Sandor's men in the foyer.

When she made it to the hallway, Sansa kept her hand against the wall to her left. Whereas the kitchen was alight with an unexpected glow, the hallway was pitch black. On the walls, her fingers traced across framed pictures of Alberto's family and snippets of his past. She imagined they were watching her, easing her through the darkness with their grace, beaming and proud. It offered some comfort, temporary though it was.

When she reached the steps, Sansa clung to the railing with both hands. Each foot was placed carefully in front of the other as she descended. The last thing she needed was to go tumbling down the steps, ending up broken and alone in the horrendous darkness she so thoroughly feared at the bottom.

She took one step right after the next, but by the time she had made it half way down, she was lightheaded and disoriented. Sansa tried to calm herself. She thought to hum her favorite song, but couldn't for the life of her remember what that song was. She tried to think of the funny things Sandor might say if he could see her now. Would he laugh, or would he tell her to go back? Would he warn her of the danger she was in? And where was he now? Was he safe? Was he on his way back to steal her away, so that they could live out their little dreams?

None of it mattered, and none of it helped. Immersed in her worst imaginable fears, Sansa could not feel herself growing numb to them. There was no cure, no miracle treatment to the horror she found herself steeped in. Terrors now triggered as Sansa reached the door to the basement. Feeling through the darkness, afraid for all those ghastly things the night had brought, she reached for the doorknob.

She pleaded inside her head for it to give, so that she could run back up the stairs and gather up all the others. When the knob did not budge, not even as she jiggled it like mad and hoped she could force it open, Sansa's heart plummeted to her stomach, and she slumped against the door, dejected and shaking.

It was then she felt the wetness against her cheek. Tears. She was crying. Alone and petrified, she cried in the darkness. Never in her life had she ached for comfort as she did now. She had known to fear for him before, but only now, when facing all her other fears, did Sansa come to truly fear for Sandor and for herself.

"Why couldn't you have stayed with me? Why did you leave me here alone?"

She hadn't meant to say the words out loud, but as she did, Sansa listened to the sounds of her own breath, intermittently quieting them and expecting to hear something shifting right next to her. Trembling so badly that she feared she might lose Roxie's card somewhere at the bottom of the steps, Sansa measured her breathing in and out.

And when she remembered her favorite song, she hummed it, though her voice quivered and cracked. She ran her fingers along Roxie's card and called to mind other memories from her past.

At the age of ten, Sansa's mother went back to work, knocking off the dust from the career she had left behind to raise a child and picking it up again with newfound vigor. This meant Sansa was responsible to let herself into the house after school. It meant remembering to carry her house key with her to get in through the garage door. And it was a task she perpetually failed at, time and time again. Locked out of her own home, crying and hungry because she also happened to forget her lunch that day, Sansa sat inside her garage, hopelessly waiting to be let in once her parents came home. Inevitably, the mechanical groan of the garage door would sound out above her to reveal her parent's on the other side, at which time she would suffer through another lecture about remembering her house key. She had spotted, though, a piece of plastic slim enough to slide between the latch of the doorknob and the accompanying hole carved out of the doorframe. With the right positioning and firm push, it had worked like a charm to get the door open.

_You don't have much time._

The thought sullied the fondness of memories, muddling them with a premonition of what was to come.  _They_ were coming soon.

In the darkness, Sansa could not see and relied on her fingers to find the sweet spot where she could work the card between the door jam. When she found it, feeling it out though her fingers trembled, Sansa aligned the card in the crevice and pushed.

The card bent and fell to the floor. Sansa whimpered, half expecting it to be snapped in half. Blessedly, it had remained in tact, but she was likely to only get one or two more tries before destroying the damn thing. She cursed bitterly at not thinking to empty Roxie's purse, to rob the woman of every last piece of plastic in her wallet.

Sansa could feel the panic rising up again. The shaking commenced along with the tightening of her chest, and the trembling of her fingers, no longer as deft or useful.  _Not now. I can fall apart later, but please, not now._

Graced with enough composure to pull herself together, Sansa once more aligned the card in the door jam, and with a determination that would not allow failure in her task, she gave a hard, solid push. Roxie's credit card snapped in half like she knew it would, but the door in front of her swung open.

A blast of cold air hit her, as she peered into the darkness beyond. It was quiet, not a sound coming forth to meet her ears. The tears dried against her cheeks, and Sansa could feel a small smile of victory curl her lips. Having done what she had set out to do and no longer wishing to face her fears, Sansa began the retreat up the stairs, relief caving in with each step.

Halfway up the steps, she heard the first pop. She knew what it was. The sound was unmistakable. Not so long ago, her life progressed like still frames on a movie screen, all silver on the edges and playing out like a dream to be envied. It had unfurled with the same sounds exploding through her ears now. Back then, she had mistaken it for fireworks, hoping to look out the window and see glittering streams of vibrant colors falling from the sky. Now, wise in a way she never hoped to be, Sansa knew what these sounds were. There were more pops, and now breaking glass accompanied them. From the front end of the house and the back end too, it all came shattering down. The men had begun to shout. It was the same sort of screaming, the same sort of chaos. The tower was falling.

 _I_ _'_ _m back where I began._

How she soldiered on through fear always boggled her mind in the days after the Royce Massacre. If she lived long enough to see morning, Sansa would likely wonder how she managed her way back up the stairs. In the end, she had crawled, so weak were her legs, numb yet also aching, utterly useless.

The men were screaming now. The sounds pouring from their mouths were blood -curdling in their own right – death howls, it would seem. Footsteps were pounding, loud and forceful, from up above and all around. She could say with no certainty which side they were on. The house was in upheaval, and when she reached the kitchen, shadowed forms were pouring in from the outside, smashing through glass. By instinct alone, Sansa knew to get on her hands and knees, to crawl along the wall and take advantage of the deafening sounds of gunfire. It was a ghastly irony – the thing that would be her saving grace right now but might very well claim her life in the end.

It wasn't until she made it into the pantry and the alcove beyond that Sansa pushed herself to her feet. She stumbled into the junk room where the women, every last one of them, were frozen in petrified fear, a million and one questions pouring from their lips. Had she made it down there? Was the door open? Should they go? Should they stay? The women must have seen that Sansa had been crying. They could likely see all the blood was draining from her face as she paled, as well as the way she leaned against the doorframe, lest she fall to the ground.

"We have to go now," she choked out on a rasp, barely able to breathe. "Go quiet, and go fast."

Panicked, the women frantically spilled from the space as Nina led the way. The sound of mayhem had escalated, and the house sounded as if it were being destroyed from the inside out. Gun shots and thunderous banging, smashing of glass, all the beautiful things coming to a cataclysmic end.

With the last woman fleeing from the room, Sansa stumbled towards the alcove but stopped when she heard the sound of sobbing. Spinning around, she saw Roxie huddled in the corner, shaking violently as she pulled herself into a ball, face buried between her knees.

Though she did not have the luxury of time on her side, certainly not as the sounds of destruction were growing louder, and consequently, nearer to where they were, Sansa reached for the woman anyway. She tugged with all her might on Roxie's arm, trying to get her to budge. The woman yelped and cried, fought and pleaded for Sansa to let her stay. She begged for her life, although Sansa was not the one who would decide whether the woman would live or die tonight.

Sansa crouched down, grasping the woman by her shoulders and shaking as hard as she could.

"Roxie, we're going to die here if you don't move. You will die here. We have to go. We have to go  _now_."

Sansa grabbed her by the hand, and with another insistent tug, the woman was on her feet. With gunfire blasting through the kitchen, Sansa ran like mad, dragging Roxie along with her. She didn't stop to look and didn't bother to crawl as she had before, but instead, she ran as fast as her legs would carry her, keeping her eyes to the ground. On the floor were the dead and dying. She leaped over the bodies and hoped like hell Roxie would do the same.

Each dead man she jumped over was a face she was familiar with. They were Sandor's men, every last one of them. Some held the placid sweetness of death on their face. Others were still alive, but just barely. They choked on blood pouring from their lips as they begged for her to help them.

_We were too few in numbers._

It was the last thought that crossed her mind before she reached the hallway, so close to a chance at survival. In the darkness, something had reached out for her, a hand gripping her upper arm and pulling her away.

She knew who it was. He was familiar to her -– the way he smelled, old man's cologne mingled with cigar smoke, the way he breathed, now a gurgle. Alberto stumbled into her arms and warmth emerged at Sansa's middle, sticky and metallic -smelling, as he pressed himself against her for support.

While Alberto stowed the women away in his closet of precious but common things, Disco had suggested the old man hide away in there too. It wasn't meant to be an insult, only Disco's way of protecting him. Moriarti took it to heart, and it was the only time Sansa had seen him truly enraged. He would fight to the end, to his grave, for the organization his father had built. He would die in its ruins before he hid away from those who wished to burn it to the ground and rejoice in its ashes.

It seemed Alberto had fought, and he was now bleeding, though his hands, spotted with age and trembling, clutched at his stomach to stop the flow of blood. When he was too weak to walk, Roxie and Sansa took one arm each and led him down the stairs as fast as they could manage. The basement lounge was still in a dreadful state of darkness, much too dark to see, when they reached it. Halfway across the room, Alberto had fallen to the floor.

"My husband," Nina's voice was pleading through tears. The woman's hands were gripping Sansa's shoulders with desperation.

 _She doesn't know,_ Sansa realized.  _She doesn't know he's gone._ Disco was among the men Sansa recognized. Though the man had been lying on his stomach, his face was turned to the side. His eyes were wide open, but he did not move, did not breathe but only shed glossy pools of blood.

"You can't go back up there, Nina. He'll be okay," Sansa lied. "But right now, I need you to help Alberto. Please?"

She could not see Nina through the pitch-black darkness and could only hear the woman's crying somewhere beneath the sounds of chaos growing louder from up above.

"Okay," Nina whispered. It was then Sansa realized that Nina did know. She knew Disco was gone. Her tears for him would not save her life, no more than it would have saved his, and so she reached out, scooping up Alberto beneath the shoulders as Roxie and Sansa gathered up his legs.

As they made their way through the corridors leading to the garage, Alberto tried to speak, and Sansa knew he was beseeching them to leave him. He had grabbed her arm, clutching to it, though his grip was weak and his words nonsensical.

"We're not leaving you," Sansa insisted to him and wondered if he could hear her now as his fingers eased their hold on her.

In the garage, the lights were on, flickering with a sickening yellow light, and the women waited. They gathered around, suddenly thrust into a terrified silence as Alberto was lowered to the floor. Sansa cradled his head in her lap, and Nina attended his wounds the best she could, speaking to the man and asking him questions to keep him from slipping out of consciousness.

Alberto was staring up at Sansa, watching her with wonder and a strange calm as she cradled his cheeks with her shaking hands. In the periphery of her vision, she could see Nina stop all movement as she settled back on her knees. When Sansa met the woman's eyes, Nina simply shook her head, eyes glistening with tears.

"We have to go," Nina entreated quietly. "Sansa, we have to go."

Covered in the man's blood, Sansa looked to Moriarti, and he gave a faint nod. It came too late, though. From up above, the mechanical groan of the garage door opener sounded out. Startled, she looked to find the door was lifting from the ground, rolling open to reveal rows of feet standing on the other side.

_Maybe he's come back. Maybe he called it all off. He came back for me._

It was a lie. Along the same lines as the lie she had told Nina. It was not meant to deceive, and there was no malice to be found in its bittersweet sentiment. It was meant to reassure, at least for a time – to soothe the sting of truth. The door lifted higher to reveal the torsos of men clutching weapons, shifting from side to side in adrenaline-induced glee.

Up and up, the door climbed, and Alberto was now writhing in her arms, silently pleading with his last bit of strength for her to run, but he knew as well as she that there was nowhere to go now. When the door stopped, it was the culmination of Sansa's fears waiting on the other side – the demons in the dark, her terrors having taken a form, no longer faceless. As sure as the sun had set and left her in a dreadful darkness,  _they_ had come. And  _they_ had found precisely what they were looking for.

* * *

On the day of his father's death, Sandor had awoken from a dream so vivid and so tangible that he had been surprised to find himself still in bed, alarm clock blaring next to him and sunlight filtering in through the blinds. He pinched his arm, hard enough to leave a mark, and wondered if he'd have yet another false awakening. With the small sting of pain, he shook his head and jumped out of bed for school.

In his dream, he had woken up to the same blaring of his alarm and the same sunlight filtering in through the blinds. His morning ritual commenced: the obligatory avoidance of Gregor, the rousing of Mirabelle, who tugged the covers over her head, breakfast on the go, and out the door with his baby sister in tow, ensuring no one fucked with her on the way to her bus stop. He had kissed his sister on the cheek and told her he'd be waiting for her at the bus stop later that afternoon. Sandor took a different way to school, a path through the woods. All along, he distinctly felt as if he were being watched and followed. He would quicken his steps, but still the feeling remained, unsettling and soaking to the bone with an insistent chill. At school, he had been drifting in and out of sleep during English class when a tap came on his shoulder. It was his teacher, Mrs. Moore, stern faced, an ugly old hag, but there was something unusually awful in her eyes. His classmates' snickers and whispers commenced as he shook off sleep and made his way down the halls to the principal's office.

Inside, the administrators had been talking in hushed voices a mile a minute before abruptly quieting as Sandor entered. The air was heavy and the room dark, although the window shades were drawn open. He remembered staring up at the ceiling, trying to understand where all the light had gone. When he sat down, they told him that there had been a terrible accident. His father had died, and when he demanded to know how, they pressed their lips together and lowered their eyes. Then suddenly, he was back in the woods, running as fast as he could. His legs were burning, and those phantom eyes were watching. At the bus stop, he found Mirabelle, sobbing into her hands.  _'Why couldn't you have stayed with me? Why did you leave me here alone?'_ she cried over and over. He begged her to stop, pleaded for her to calm down, and swore that it would all be okay. Her crying had become louder, louder than what was humanly possible and screaming through his ears.

_'Why couldn't you have stayed with me? Why did you leave me here alone?'_

He had pressed his palms against his ears and shouted for her to stop, to please,  _please_ just stop.

When he woke dripping in sweat, it was his alarm that had been screaming through his ears, not his sister. With that pinch to his arm, his day commenced: avoiding Gregor, escorting Mirabelle to her bus stop, and ensuring he took his usual route to school. In English class, he refused to fall asleep. He paid attention in order to shake the feeling his dream had left him with. Mrs. Moore seemed utterly stunned at his attentiveness to her lecture, her head whipping for a double take as he scribbled down notes, anything to distract himself. All throughout the day, his eyes would drift to the doors of his various classrooms, waiting for an administrator to pull him from class and offer the terrible news.

As it happened, they did not, and Sandor had breathed a sigh of relief when the final bell rang. He picked Mirabelle up from her bus stop, and she had waved merrily at him, a smile on her face as he approached. All the way home, she had pestered him to tell her what was wrong. That was the connection they shared, him and Mirabelle. She saw right through him in times like those, even though he grumbled out laughs at her jokes and put up appearances that all was right in the world. Of all the details Sandor remembered of that day, it was the feeling of dread that remained with him through the years. Its insistence had been suffocating, and Sandor remembered  _wanting_ something bad to happen, if only to have the feeling finally depart from him. The anticipation was something from a nightmare, nearly unbearable.

When they approached the front porch, their father's shouting could be heard along with Gregor's. Back and forth the two went, hurling bitter insults at one another. Sandor had ushered his sister quietly to his room, and it was there that they waited for the shouting to stop. Mirabelle had begun to cry, and Sandor tried in earnest to calm her. When his sister was truly afraid, it was their mother she cried for, although she never knew the woman. All Sandor knew to do was tell stories of their mother – stories of her unwavering kindness and unfading beauty. As years passed, their mother became something of a myth, her characteristics embellished by Sandor over time. On that particular day, Mirabelle had listened for a while until the shouting was louder and accompanied by breaking glass. Sandor had taken his sister by the hand, then, and led her downstairs through the kitchen, as quickly as he could manage without rousing Gregor's attention. When their father yowled out in pain, Mirabelle had broken free and sprinted into the living room.

Sandor had understood, then, that his father would die that night. His dream, so vivid and so tangible, was a death omen. Without a second thought, he snatched his baby sister up as Gregor continued the assault. Out the back door they went, running across their back yard towards the woods beyond.

 _'Run, Mirabelle. Run and don't look back.'_ The words had been meant as much for him as they were for his sister.

Eventually, he had scooped Mirabelle up. Her little legs were too weak to run much further, and she cried like a baby in his arms as he ran towards the woods, where they waited through the night and into the next day.

Sandor never told a soul about his dream or the death omen that accompanied it. Years later, he hadn't even told Mirabelle how he somehow augured their father's demise. Well into adulthood, he scoffed at that kind of crap – hippy-dippy new age shit that his sister and her friend Arianne were into. Over time, he had even forgotten the dream, somehow convincing himself it was just a coincidence and nothing more – until it happened again.

When he woke this morning, Sandor was met with the same dread, the same unbearable heaviness that tormented him throughout the day of his father's death. And just like that day – so many years ago – he had a dream the night before, unusually vivid and tangible.

Sandor had been watching Sansa pack their bags, admiring the view as she'd bend over, shake her ass, and smile over her shoulder at him. He had half-jokingly told her not to tempt him and that they had a schedule to keep. By some unconscious manifestation of their newfound mantra, it was just him and her in the Moriarti household. They encountered no one else as they gathered up their belongings to leave. He had made a trip to the pantry, shoving boxes of Pop Tarts, potato chips, and other junk food they could snack on into a duffle bag. When they drove off in his Mustang – which in his waking life he knew was totaled during their botched hit – Sansa had turned to him, crying as she spoke.

_'Shouldn't we at least say goodbye to Alberto?'_

Even in his dream, he had been confused, wondering why she was suddenly moved to tears. Would she miss the man that much? He had consoled her, despite his confusion, promising her that they would see Alberto again soon.

It was then he woke, his blankets damp from sweat and sunlight filtering in through the blinds. He turned to his left, finding a fan of red hair sprawled across the pillow and picking up the morning light. Sandor had pressed his body against hers, soaking in the warmth and hoping like hell perhaps he had slept through it all. Maybe the months leading up to this day had just been a dream – vivid and tangible. Maybe this morning was the day he and Sansa would leave the Moriarti mansion, go somewhere where they were nameless, anywhere at all, as long as she was with him.

When Sansa woke and turned to him with sad eyes and arms clinging to him as if it might be the last time they were together like this, Sandor knew it was real. It wasn't a dream. There would be no more false awakenings. Reality persisted, burdensome and somber though it was, but it came with the dread he had forgotten and hoped to never encounter again.

It was all Sandor could think of now amongst the gunfire sounding out. Surely, that was a sign of something: to be in such mortal danger, and yet to fixate on odd memories, which pulled his focus from where it should be. He was crouched beneath the boards sufficing as a table, his back protesting in pain at the awkward contortion his large frame had to maintain in order to fit.

When Gregor's men took them by surprise, ambushing the space with the thunderous clamor of gunfire, Sandor thought that the feeling of impending doom would dissipate at any moment. The ambush alone could have provided relief – a sudden sense that this was, of course, the ripple in the water, the source of his uneasiness. However, much to his supreme dismay, the night's eeriness did not end. In many ways, it seemed to be just beginning.

The only stray bits of solace he could find lay in the sloppiness of Gregor's men. He hadn't come to expect anything less from the Severelli. They had the numbers advantage on their side, but that meant hardly anything at all. They relied on it; it was a crutch thought to make up for their lack of discipline and capabilities. In Alberto's days, the rival mafia family gave the Moriarti a good run for their money, an opponent worth the hassle of dragging out the men to war. Under his brother's leadership, the Severelli had fallen apart, fractured right down the middle, and that divide was a glaring weakness. Gregor had no patience for training his men, for seeing to it that they had a good head on their shoulders and could use it to their advantage. If his ranks were lacking, he sent his capos out to recruit lazy fucks, idiots out to prove something by joining the mafia or runaways apt to bail if things got too heated.

Right now, Gregor's men were making the mistake of standing still. From beneath the table, Sandor had a decent vantage point and made easy work of sniping the kneecaps of men within range. They'd fall to the floor, somehow bewildered that they were taken down. Writhing in pain and suddenly scared shitless, Sandor would deliver the fatal shot, right between the eyes. Five, six, maybe seven, went down this way; he couldn't be sure. His mark only began to falter when he saw that he was losing men too –  _good_ men who didn't deserve to die, especially not by the hand of some strung out cokehead.

It was a misstep on Gregor's part, sending the worst of his men to storm in and a bit insulting too. It was turning into a fucking shit show. More Moriarti men were going down, and Sandor wondered what had become of the rest of his men. AWOL had shown up with his crew and the cartel members who tagged along. Beyond that, he hadn't a clue what happened to Pete and Murdoch's crews. There hadn't been enough time to even inquire.

When Sandor cursed beneath his breath, frustrated and growing steadily fearful that the other men weren't faring much better, Alejandro shifted so that his one good eye could stare over his shoulder at Sandor. Or perhaps it glowered at him. With one eye missing, the remaining eye seemed to do double duty, conveying whatever it was that stirred within the man who was decidedly odd. At first, Sandor thought it was a gimmick that Martinez got a kick out of – his own personal Lurch who stalked the shadows in an effort to intimidate by way of creepiness.

Alejandro had lurked about the meeting held yesterday. He never joined the table with Martinez and Sandor, and he took no part in the discussion or planning. When Sandor had excused himself to go to the bathroom, he'd first caught sight of Alejandro from the corner of his eye. The man had been sitting in the dark at the front of the restaurant. Moonlight was the only thing that illuminated the room, and stationed in front of the window, Alejandro was just a silhouette. Startled at first, Sandor had peered through the darkness and could have sworn it was himself that he saw – the same facial features, same length of black hair spilling over broad shoulders, same scarring, same clothing, same grave demeanor. Having been in the mafia for so many years, Sandor had witnessed and been a part of unimaginable horrors, ones that no ordinary man could stomach. It wasn't often he found himself afraid. Seeing Alejandro in the darkness, or rather seeing what he thought was  _himself_ in the darkness, had genuinely frightened him, much more than he cared to admit even now.

Understanding there was no conceivable or logical way to explain what he was seeing, Sandor had squeezed his eyes shut momentarily, in an effort to clear his vision. When he opened them again, Alejandro had stepped closer into the light to reveal only a passing resemblance to Sandor, more in height and size than anything else. In the end, he shook his head, blamed it on the whiskey, and retreated into the bathroom to take a piss, hoping like hell the man would not follow him.

His upper body turned fully to face Sandor now, and Alejandro still had not broken eye contact. He continued to stare in such a way that Sandor swore the man was intentionally trying to fuck with him. Alejandro's men were dying too, and if anything, in far greater numbers, but it did not seem to faze him – yet another oddity to the man. There was no affinity or attachment to those who had followed him into war. Alejandro seemed to regard them with the same apathy as the Moriarti men. Surely, he had to notice and had to be disturbed that his men were perishing at such a rapid rate, all but a handful of them. Alejandro had stopped firing rounds, but he  _would_ _not_ stop staring at Sandor, one eye boring right through flesh and bone.

A bullet flew somewhere over the table, and a few moments later, a body came sliding across the floor, landing against some of the boxes underneath with a thud. Wide-eyed and flushed, Zulu's head popped up as he patted his body, checking for injuries. The kid closed his eyes when he found everything in its rightful place and motioned the sign of the cross over himself with a relieved sigh. Without missing a beat, Zulu took full advantage of the cover from beneath the table, methodically firing shots and deftly hitting his mark.

Following suit, Sandor began to turn his attention to the room beyond. After a few shots, he noticed that Alejandro hadn't stirred next to him and had remained impossibly still. Sandwiched between Sandor and Zulu, the man was no longer engaged in the battle unfolding all around them, but instead began to slowly swivel his head to focus his attention on Zulu. He studied the kid, watching him with the same intensity that he had, only moments ago, reserved for Sandor. Zulu must've felt the heaviness of the man's glare because he shifted an unnerved glance in Alejandro's direction before returning to his task. Still, Alejandro continued to steady his focus on Zulu, not realizing that he himself was being watched.

Martinez had cautioned against mistrust, spewing all kinds of flowery bullshit about how they must seal their arrangement with mutual acceptance and loyalty – a true partnership. Unfortunately, his number two didn't seem to share those ideals and couldn't care less that this was an obvious set-up, staged by the Severelli against bothof their organizations. Sandor had no idea what mattered to Alejandro, or why he was even here, if not to ensure that this  _partnership_ succeeded. He could no longer place the man's motives, and that alone succeeded in making his skin crawl, his palms grow clammy, and his heart thrum within his chest.

Zulu shifted ever so slightly away, enough to no longer see the way Alejandro was making slow movements, lifting his gun towards the kid as discreetly as possible. In the end, Sandor was quicker and smarter too.

Gun at the base of Alejandro's neck, Sandor pulled the trigger without so much as a second thought. The gunshot was lost amidst the chaos but sounded out loud enough that Zulu jumped in his spot. Thoroughly shaken, the kid slammed his head against the bottom of the table before snapping around to stare in confusion at Sandor. Alejandro's blood was streaming down the side of his face.

"What the fuck just happened?" Zulu shrieked, swiping at the blood belonging to the dead man next to him.

"He had it out for you, kid," Sandor deadpanned, shoulders lifting in a shrug.

In truth, it bothered him to see Alejandro staring at Zulu and enraged him to see the man lifting his gun to the kid's head. Blood running cold through his veins, Sandor suddenly remembered how that had been his own plan for Zulu all along. He himself had sworn he'd do something similar on this very night, to take the kid out and render him just a casualty of war. He'd forgotten and now found himself disgusted by the thought. He had his beef with Zulu, – and it would get sorted out sooner or later – but to have considered murdering him in such a way was disturbing.

The pops of gunfire slowed, eventually dying off into a troubling silence, not one meant to endure or be savored. Sandor lifted himself out from underneath the table, and for the first time, took in the gory sight of what the room had become: blood splatter and men faceless in death lying about, some moaning out their last breaths.

He lost men, more than he cared to count, but it seemed the Severelli lost this particular brawl. Sandor had forgotten what war looked like – the brutal reality that existed firmly behind the glory and the glamour. In the weeks after, those who survived would share their tales of bravery and showcase their battle scars. Beneath it all, though, was the remembrance of its horror. No one ever seemed to talk about that. Those secrets were kept hidden, buried because they were too unsettling to live on in stories.

"How many of us are left?" Sandor asked, although he begun to silently count the men still standing.

"Half, I'd say."

Bronn's voice was soft behind him. When Sandor turned around, his underboss was wiping blood from his face, the blood of other men.

The handful of remaining cartel men had gathered around Alejandro's body in something akin to ritualistic homage. They quietly looked down at their leader, bloodied and mangled on the floor beneath the table. After a few moments, their voices grew loud as they argued amongst themselves in Spanish. Zulu manifested by Sandor's side, leaning towards him as he spoke.

"A few of them are saying they want to bolt, to leave before it gets any worse. The others are telling them to stay, warning them that Martinez will have their heads if they bail."

"Tell them shit happens," Sandor sneered with a huff. "They knew the risks."

He no longer cared about the deal he had forged with Martinez. As far as he was concerned, it was null and void the moment Alejandro lifted his gun to the head of a Moriarti man. While Zulu joined the cartel men's conversation, Sandor turned to the remainder of his men, a dozen or so.

"Do we know what's happening on the other side of the building?" he questioned.

Each shook their head, sweeping their eyes to the man standing next to them. It was AWOL who came forward then, phone in his hand and eyes flicking across the screen.

"Pete and Murdoch are holding the warehouse down for now, but they're going to need us there as soon as possible. More Severelli are on the move and heading that way."

The man wasted no time tucking his phone back into his pocket. It wasn't until AWOL met his eyes that Sandor knew something was wrong. There was something AWOL was not divulging. The man was uncharacteristically nervous, and his eyes shifted, perhaps unknowingly, to Bronn, who was somehow a part of this, it would seem.

"What's going on?" Sandor demanded firmly, turning to AWOL and then Bronn in turn.

"The sooner we can get this done with the better," Bronn answered instantaneously, corralling Sandor's attention away from AWOL, who dropped his gaze to the ground at his feet.

Sandor nodded, although he wasn't looking at Bronn. Instead, he focused on the disconnect he saw in AWOL. Having seen the horrors of war both in the mafia and outside of it, AWOL was notoriously unaffected by violence to the extent of becoming almost callous towards it. Yet now, something had clearly gotten under his skin and rattled him right to the core. The excuses for his behavior were numerous: perhaps the ambush had spooked him, or maybe he wasn't prepared to see some of his men go down as they had. Every man has a breaking point, and maybe this was AWOL's. None seemed an adequate explanation, but there was no time to pick the man's brain or comfort his disturbed state.

"Alright, let's go," Sandor bellowed out.

The men that remained gathered behind him, as they resumed their push towards the middle of the building and the warehouse where Pete and Murdoch were holding their ground.

With Sandor and Bronn following closely behind, AWOL led the way back towards the hallway from which he had come. The men formed a single line with their backs against the wall and moved seamlessly with hardly a sound. The cartel men had reluctantly followed along after having reached an unsteady agreement to stay. They were a lost cause in Sandor's mind, more of a thorn in his side than anything else. With macabre intent, he hoped they might perish somewhere along the line.

At the end of the hallway, a heavy door was propped open to reveal a large, vacuous space beyond. Along the walls, boxes were stacked six or seven feet in the air, and machinery was covered over with sheets, probably left behind by the previous tenants of the building. Emergency lights glowed dimly from up above, casting shadows about an otherwise pitch-black room but shedding just enough light to guide the way. The men slowed when they came to a partition in the open space, a half-wall that blocked their path forward. AWOL leaned closer to Sandor, his voice hushed to a whisper.

"We'll want to go through the door on the other side of the room. It opens into more hallways with some offices and then out into the warehouse at the end. There's some shelves and shit blocking the way on the other side of this wall, so we have to cut through the middle of the room."

Sandor strained to see, as his eyes adjusted to the dark. He could make out the metallic outline of the door AWOL had pointed to. It was perhaps thirty feet from where they were now. If they moved fast enough, they wouldn't be out in the open for long.

"Ladies first," Sandor muttered, motioning his head towards their destination as he offered AWOL a half-smile, perhaps a bit misplaced given the situation. The man huffed out a laugh in return and slid out into the open, crouching by instinct, a well-trained soldier. Sandor followed after him, and the others were not far behind. A soft shuffling of feet filled the silent space as they inched through the darkness.

Sandor stopped once they made it past the door and into the hallway on the other side. Bronn, AWOL, and a handful of their men waited with him. They had run down the hall's length, shared exuberance filling the space as they reached the door at the end, the one leading to the warehouse. The telltale sounds of fighting filtered through from the other side. Over the pops of gunfire, Sandor could hear Pete screaming out orders to his men.

Before he could push through the door leading to the warehouse, more gunshots shattered the silence, only this time they were echoing loudly from the open space he had just left behind. Counting heads, only half of his men had made it into the hallway. Sandor hurried past AWOL, Bronn, and the others, ignoring them when they told him to stop and insisted they had to press on. Through the small glass cutout near the top of the door, he saw the room being lit up in orbs of temporary and blinding light, a split second ahead of the sounds of automatic weapons firing. It seemed to be playing out in stereo all around him – the shouting, the running, the chaos and confusion. It didn't matter which direction he went; his men were dying on both sides.

He pushed back out into the open space to find three Severelli men picking off his remaining men with ease, but not before a Moriarti man managed to take down one of the Severelli. The man was slumped against the door, his gun by his side. In quick movements, fast so as not to draw attention to himself, Sandor snatched the dead man's weapon and fired at the nearest of Gregor's men, who fell to the ground. The remaining Severelli man was rendered into a state of momentary confusion, long enough to ensure his demise. A clean shot from one of Sandor's men caught the man in the middle of the forehead.

The men left standing – six Moriarti and two cartel men – hurried into the hall, no moment of reprieve. Bronn and AWOL were already storming into the warehouse. When they opened the door, it sounded as if they were heading straight into the heart of hell. Complete pandemonium rang out from the other side. The screams and the gunfire echoed louder than anything Sandor could remember, amplified throughout the space and proliferating the horror.

Sandor charged down the hall but stopped midstride, though he could not say why. In spite of all logic, which would dictate he should follow his men into battle, he remained unmoving. His men rushed past him into the warehouse. If they found it odd that their boss, their leader, was wavering, they didn't let on. Forward they went, no turning back.

The thread unfurled for Sandor then, just like his dreams in those moments right before waking. Everything slowed, and everything quieted. There was an unearthly sense of awareness straddling the divide between his dream state and consciousness. Only now, he wasn't dreaming. It was real. It was so real he could feel the hairs on his arm stand on end and his body grow as still as he could manage, for fear of something he couldn't place.

 _I'm being watched,_ Sandor realized. The sensation was jarring and accompanied with the dread that had ruled the day.

He didn't want to move, not even to look, but his head was turning anyway, just enough so that an adjacent hallway was held within the periphery of his vision. He wasn't aware initially that he was standing at the junction of the two hallways. Ahead of him, the battle was underway, the one they had been waiting months on end for. To his left, there was only darkness. Yet, in the darkness, something seemed to shift, and when he turned his head to see, a shadowed form peered from around the corner at the end of the hall.

Never in his life had Sandor been paralyzed by fear. He could think of not a single instance, and he never understood what it felt like when others spoke of how terror can take hold, possessing the body and working its will. Then, the black form eased slowly from the corner to step fully into the opening at the end of the hallway.

To his left was Sandor's battle, the one he was meant to fight alone. He had been waiting a lifetime for it. Countless nights, it had played out in his nightmares. He imagined all the ways Gregor could meet his end, all the ways he wanted to seek his vengeance.

It was the sheer height and size of the shadow that gave him away. How long had Gregor been watching from the shadows and stalking him there? And how long did they stare at one another, each unmoving and peering through the darkness? Sandor could not say. It felt like a trance; he could not take his eyes away, but he could not move either. His mind raced with possibilities and was screaming out demands to run, to chase after him, but his body did not respond.

Without warning, the shadow of his brother darted across the end of the adjacent hall, and in that instant, Sandor snapped back to reality. He bolted forward and down the hall, taking a sharp left after his brother. It was a maze of hallways, zigzagging and turning, leading deeper into the heart of the building. Down hallways, past open doors and windows through which the light of the moon spilled, he chased Gregor's shadow.

Deeper and deeper they went, and it grew darker with each turn, until Sandor could no longer make out where he was going. He had lost himself down those halls. Nothing else mattered, he was convinced of it. Everything, every last little thing, seemed so trivial now compared to what he had waited so long for. It felt like a waking dream, surreal as the edges of reality faded to a dull, hazy glow. Perhaps it was a dream, and any minute now, he would wake up. He'd heave for breath and curse the night, which tormented him endlessly with dreams that felt too real and reality that felt too dream-like.

Sandor wondered if, like in the lucidity of his dreams, he could fly down the length of the hall, closing the gap between himself and his brother. Though he willed his legs faster, Gregor had disappeared into a room at the end of a hall.

Without thinking and without slowing, Sandor barreled through the doorway. It must've been madness that encouraged him to rush through the threshold without second thought or reservations. No sooner had he entered the room than a whooshing sound met his ears, followed instantly by a painful crack against his ribcage. Bones broke, and he careened towards the floor.

Gregor continued his assault, and all Sandor could do was curl up to protect himself from the blows of a baseball bat. They were both armed with guns and could so easily take the life of the other, but it seemed it would not do – not for Gregor and certainly not for Sandor.

Three more blows landed against his side and his shoulders before Sandor deciphered the excruciating rhythm. On the next upswing, he uncurled himself and caught the bat by its end, as it cut through the air with an audible whirl. His fingers clamped around the wood, and he gave a forceful tug, ignoring the howling pain from his side. It was enough to send his brother stumbling forward to the ground, and in his confusion, Gregor let go of the bat. Sandor quickly pushed himself up from the floor and scrambled on top of his brother. Straddling Gregor, he wasted no time bashing the end of the bat into his brother's face. There would be no mercy; no toying around by inflicting damage slowly to drag out the event as long as possible.

The first crack broke his brother's nose. It snapped at a ghastly angle, twisting on contact. Gregor screamed more in anger than anything else as blood gushed from his nostrils. His eye sockets were next. With any luck, Sandor would crush the bone and temporarily blind his brother. In a daze, he lost count of how many strikes he landed and no longer felt the pain against his side with every subtle movement. At some point in the assault, Gregor reached up and coiled his fingers around Sandor's throat. As Sandor found himself in silence, he realized now that he had been screaming a mere moment earlier, awful sounds that were hardly human. The screaming stopped, and Sandor could no longer breathe.

Gregor sat up, his grip a vice around Sandor's neck. Face to face now, Gregor smiled, his teeth red with blood and a gust of laughter spilling from his broken lips. Although the room was already dark, save the moonlight streaming in through windows, Sandor could swear it grew darker, and a black mass gradually crept in on him. Gurgles came from his lips, wheezes and hisses as he fought for air. His fists moved in frantic motion, pounding against any solid surface they could reach. Whether they hit Gregor or the floor he was pressed against, Sandor couldn't say. His thoughts were muddled, narrowing on his resolve to survive before dispersing into a million and one shattered pieces. They floated away, though he willed them back together with the desperation of a dying man.

His brother squeezed harder and laughed at the popping sounds he was rewarded with when his fingers clenched tighter around Sandor's neck.

"When our mother was pregnant with you, I dreamed of stabbing her in the stomach, right where you were curled up, nice and warm." Gregor seethed as he pressed his bloody lips to Sandor's ear, warm breath an odd sensation to the cold spreading through his limbs. "Even then, I wanted to rip her open and tear you out. I should have done it.  _Fuck,_  I should have. Don't know why I didn't."

When Gregor spoke, there was sincere regret in his voice, an abhorrent disappointment at a missed opportunity of the most blasphemous kind.

"I did it to our sister when I should have done it to our mother," Gregor continued. He had pulled back to watch Sandor struggle and did so with a delighted smile. "I would have saved myself the trouble of having to murder our sister."

Sandor had forgotten the way in which his brother unearthed fear and anger, too. He drew out the shadow side that exists in everyone, the parts hidden in the dark corners of humanity. Gregor was an abomination – evil manifested in human form. It was because his brother lived and breathed that Sandor never managed to believe in God. What entity, so purportedly good and loving, would unleash a monster such as this? It was not the eternal struggle between good and evil that gave Sandor the strength to fight. It was not the grace of some God. It was a self-serving desire to slay the beast himself, to vanquish that particular monstrosity with his own hands, to watch the light leave his brother's eyes, to soak up the satisfaction at taking this particular life.

Despite the way his vision was now coming in and out of focus, Sandor thrashed hard to the left and then the right with his last bit of strength that remained. With the sudden and insistent movement, Gregor released his hold and lifted himself off of Sandor. He burst into loud laughter as Sandor gasped for air and choked on his breaths, lungs burning and neck throbbing with pain. With each sharp gasp, blinding pain ripped through his side and chest.

Sandor began to crawl across the floor on hands and knees. His vision was still blurred, and he was disoriented. If he tried to push himself to his feet, he would fall to the ground again. With a shaky hand, he reached for his gun lying on the floor a few feet away. One clean shot was all he needed, and it would be over with. Just one shot.

The heel of Gregor's boot came crashing down on Sandor's hand. The fragile bones snapped like twigs against the force. The pain was worse than he could have imagined –searing as it shot up the length of his arm. All he could do was scream, in frustration and in agony. His brother lapped it up, laughing with sharp, whooping sounds like a madman. Sandor was faced, now, with the possibility that Gregor was winning, a victory assured. His brother was simply toying with him. At any moment, he would end Sandor's life. This was a game to him, always just a sick game.

Head hung down in what Gregor must have thought was defeat, Sandor scanned across the base of the walls for anything he could get his hands on. There were boxes, though he didn't know what was contained within. There were random objects, too awkward and bulky to be of any real use. It wasn't until he saw something metallic – long but heavy, if looks did not deceive – that Sandor jumped to his feet and scurried across the room as fast as his battered body would allow.

In strides longer than his own, Gregor reached him, a fist in Sandor's hair and yanking hard, but not before Sandor snatched up the object, which turned out to be a rusted piece of pipe. Without paying mind to the chunks of hair ripping from his scalp or the way the broken shards of bone in his hand shifted with his grip, Sandor swung. He did not stop to aim or to think; he simply swung.

The pipe landed hard against Gregor's temple, and it was enough to send his brother stumbling backwards. By instinct, Sandor ducked, anticipating his brother's swinging fist, which came like clockwork. Crouched down, Sandor swung again and landed a blow against Gregor's ribs. His brother stumbled backwards again, and Sandor lunged forward, another blow landing against Gregor's temple. With this, Gregor fell to his knees. With another swing, there was another crack against his brother's head. Continually, Sandor delivered blows. The pipe was tearing at skin and ripping it to shreds. Blood was running down Gregor's face in glistening streams, and his eyes had gone glassy.

Unlike before, Sandor was silent – no savage screams, only the sound of his exerted breaths, the dull thud as the pipe met his target, the pained moans from his brother. He didn't shout out in a maddened fury, and he didn't commence a diatribe of how one man, his own flesh and blood, had inflicted so much damage and pain in his life.

When Gregor slumped to the floor, unconscious, but still breathing, Sandor stopped. His body ached, and his hand throbbed. He too went to the floor, the pipe dropping to the ground with a sharp clang.

Gregor's face was a mess – unrecognizable in the same way Mirabelle's face had held hardly any of her living resemblance. Regardless, Sandor knew the similarities that were there beneath the blood and gore. As a child, he could never quite manage to look his brother in the eye for any length of time lest he provoke Gregor's fickle temper. They had shared a bedroom though, and at night, he'd stare at his brother's sleeping form, noting the similarities between them.

They shared their father's crooked nose and heavy brow, their mother's eyes and wry smile. Even then, the hatred between them ran deep, but Sandor possessed something he never quite sensed from Gregor. It was the yearning for a bond they would never share, true brotherhood. Back then, he hated that he wanted it, that it kept him awake at nights when Gregor could so easily do without it. In the beginning, that was the source of his hatred towards his brother – the kind of anger that grows from pain. If he ever truly loved his brother, it would have been then – those sleepless nights, wondering what it must feel like to find a protector and a mentor in an older brother. Months later, Gregor pushed Sandor's face into the flames of a fire, and the hope of true brotherhood died that day. Thereafter, sleepless nights were reserved for fear of the brother who he knew then was a monster and hatred took on a different form. His life had come full circle, Sandor realized then as he stared at Gregor, the last of his kin.

That inconvenient thought came, startling and sobering him into this keen understanding.  _The last of my kin._  Gregor was his brother by blood, and although that had meant less than nothing to him for the entirety of his life, it seemed to find meaning in this moment.

He was faltering, and it was infuriating. He wanted to jump out of his own skin, burning beneath the jacket he wore, and batter the sense into himself. Why now? Where was all the anger? Where had it suddenly fled? And why had it left a dull sense of sadness in its place? Was it himself he saw in Gregor? Was that why? Were they the same all along, he and his brother – both monsters, both terrible men, both fueled by shameful motives?

_Would Gregor have faltered in this moment?_

That was the question that rang out loudest in his mind. It's heavy droll was met with an immediate answer, one that did not require second thought or hesitation. His brother would not falter, and he would feel no remorse, no pity, and certainly no stray bits of sorrow.

It was enough for Sandor to know the similarities between himself and Gregor ended with crooked noses and heavy brows, grey eyes and wry smiles. It was humanity that set them apart, the goodness that falters at the horrific task of murdering one's own family. In this, they were different, he and his brother.

Though he now heard the shuffling of feet and pants of exhausted breaths behind him, Sandor did not turn to look who had found him.

"Is he dead?" AWOL's voice ventured carefully, his hand resting on Sandor's shoulder.

"No," Sandor replied, in a voice hoarse and fading.

"What will we do with him?" Bronn asked. He was a part of this as well because he too had something precious ripped from him by Gregor. The man's own hunger for vengeance was easy enough to decipher by the sound of his voice.

"Bind him, and get him outside," Sandor instructed.

He carefully pushed himself to his feet as he spoke, painfully aware now of every broken bone in his body. His hand was swelling and barely able to grip his gun, as he snatched it from the ground. His broken ribs made breathing an agonizing task. More of Sandor's men filtered into the room, wiping blood and sweat from their brow, beat to hell, but with faces drawn in somber relief.

AWOL and Pete began the task of binding Gregor with whatever they could find. The other men scrambled to help, offering their waning strength to carry Gregor from the room. Sandor and Bronn followed behind, backtracking through the halls.

"How many are left?" Sandor asked for the second time this evening.

Bronn shifted his gaze to the ground momentarily and drew in a shaky before answering.

"Twenty, maybe less."

He did not look at Sandor when he spoke, as if the truth of it all might come falling down around him if he did. Instead, Bronn wiped the sleeve of his shirt across his eyes when he said the number out loud, smearing blood across his cheeks in the process. Sandor said nothing in return, only shook his head, and it was just as well. The number was unimaginable, a fourth of their men remained and the rest were lost.

He wondered now if the dread was gone. Fighting for his life, he had grown numb to it, as his senses were preoccupied. Surely, there could be relief as the procession went on in a mournful silence, all the way outside behind the building and towards the tree line some forty feet away. With his faculties returning to him, so too did the oppressive sense of foreboding. It pressed upon him, more suffocating and perturbing than he had remembered. Where he had expected the dread to be all but eradicated by now, Sandor instead found himself fully immersed in it.

He willed it away as his men dumped Gregor's body to the ground. Eight of his men gathered around, the others were still somewhere inside. This was it, or so he hoped. It would have to be it. He couldn't stomach, and perhaps couldn't survive, another disastrous turn of events. Sandor could now feel the heaviness of eyes on him. All of his men were watching in earnest, wondering what was to be done.

"Pete," Sandor called out. The man shuffled to his side, pink headband crooked and stained with blood. "Inside there is a canister of gasoline in the area that separates the offices from the warehouse. Go get it."

Pete nodded his head, brow heavy with determination as he sprinted back towards the building. The men shifted collectively, though none spoke a word.

"AWOL." Voice quieter now, Sandor sought him out, and it seemed the man already knew what was coming, as a smile had crept across his lips. "I think Bronn could use a cigarette." Sandor watched AWOL's smile unfold into a wide grin, while he reached into his pocket.

All eyes were on Bronn now, who scanned through the darkness – looking to Pete, who came running back towards them, red canister in hand, and to AWOL, who had reached out to him, a cigarette resting softly in his palm right next to a lighter.

Bronn looked to Sandor then, staring at him and his mouth opening as if he meant to speak. The words died in his throat on something that sounded like a groan. Sandor offered an exhausted smile and merely nodded his head.

Pete came bounding up next to Sandor, who took the gas canister from him and approached his brother. Still unconscious, though not for long, Gregor had rolled slightly onto his back, and his breaths were coming shallower, chest rising and falling gently to suggest he would wake soon.

Sandor twisted off the cap and tossed it to the ground. Tipping the container, the fluid came sloshing out, splashing against Gregor's face. His brother's eyes cracked open before squeezing shut as the liquid seeped in. Another splash came, right as Gregor was about to speak. He sputtered instead, spitting out gasoline as his eyes snapped open furiously.

Gregor writhed as he strained against his binds. Sandor dumped gasoline down the length of his brother's body, the clothing eagerly soaking up the liquid. When the canister was emptied of its contents, Sandor tossed it aside.

"You won't do it. Too much of a pussy. Always were. Right, brother?" Gregor's face grew dark as he bellowed out his words towards Sandor, who had turned away, taking slow strides back towards his men. "Does it bother you when I call you brother? That's what we are. You're no better than me. You're just a liar. You lie to yourself that you're better. Isn't that right? You're not shit. If you were, Mirabelle would be alive right now."

Sandor halted abruptly, his feet kicking up dirt. It was the sound of his sister's name coming off of Gregor's lips that bid him to stop. Newfound rage broke within him, its resurgence hurling him towards his brother. He delivered a swift kick, as hard as he could manage, against Gregor's side.

His brother gasped and coughed, fighting for the air that left his lungs.

"There it is! There's your anger!" Gregor screamed maniacally once he caught his breath.

The assault didn't seem to faze Gregor. The harder Sandor kicked his side or slammed his heel against his brother's chest, the man continued on, laughing and screaming all through the groaning of pain.

Winded, Sandor stopped, doubled over with his hands resting on his knees. Gregor went silent momentarily, but began to chuckle darkly until he spoke once more.

*** "She called for you as she died, you know. She begged for you to come save her. Even as I let my men fuck her, she was calling for you. A bit strange, I thought."

Repulsed and disgusted, Sandor slowly lifted his eyes towards Gregor who was laughing, taunting the way Sandor paled and the way his limbs began to tremble. In an instant, the pain of his broken bones and bruised skin became too much for him to bear. Beside himself with a surge of grief, he felt like falling to his knees. With distant acknowledgement, Sandor had surmised the needless and gratuitous horror Mirabelle had endured before her death. He knew, but he chose to ignore, to avoid this particular and ghastly bit of truth. He knew, but didn't want to believe.

Sandor was vaguely aware of a strange sound softly escaping the lips of someone behind him. When the sound grew louder, he knew it was Bronn – equally enraged and disgusted by what he had just heard – crying angry tears because it was all he could do.

"Do it," Sandor urged, more a plea as his voice was broken and weak.

As Sandor rose to stand, Bronn stepped forward. With one last pull on the end of the cigarette, he flicked it towards Gregor. In an instant, the thin fabric of his T-shirt ignited. Gregor haphazardly rolled to his side, stopping momentarily and wincing in pain where Sandor had surely broken ribs. It was long enough for the flames to spread down his legs and up towards his neck. He thrashed to the left and to the right, trying to smother the flames, but it made no difference. The fire was burning through his clothes and licking at his skin beneath.

Sandor watched in strange fascination at the way his brother writhed against the ground. He understood better than any what it felt like to burn – the unimaginable agony and terrifying awareness as skin separated from the flesh underneath, peeling and burning away. He could think of no better end for his brother, no finer way to see the man suffer before meeting his demise. Gregor's panicked screams had quieted ever so slightly, long enough so that he could form words, though they were fractured with excruciating pain.

"My men…" he managed to cry out, catching and holding Sandor's attention, as he glared from beneath the crimson glow of the flames. "Doing the same to your girl. As…we…speak."

His words sputtered, and Gregor lifted his chin as the flames crept higher up his neck. Despite the waves of radiant heat bathing him in warmth, Sandor shivered against a phantom chill that froze to the bone. His heart felt as if it had plummeted to his stomach, beating like mad as it went.

"S-s-s-slow… Fuck her. Kill. Slow…"

 _No._ Sandor shook his head, though he didn't speak.  _No. I left so many men behind. So many._ His entire body was wracked with violent tremors. He froze where he stood, though an alarm screamed through his mind. The dread had finally found its place. In a night where death had claimed so many, the true horror was playing out somewhere else.

Sandor stumbled, his legs moving awkwardly and against one another. He had to leave, to run, to move, but he was dizzy now and felt as if any sudden movements would send him to the ground. The smell of burning skin was sickening, and vomit rose up against his throat as he heaved.

Yet, Sandor was acutely aware of AWOL's pacing, his movements jittery as his hands were firmly planted against the sides of his head in obvious distress. The man shifted a frantic stare between Bronn and Sandor, back and forth, again and again. His eyes pleaded and for what Sandor didn't know. Forgiveness, was it? Something terrible was about to spill from his lips.

"What happened?" Sandor's hands clamped down hard on AWOL's shoulders. The man stilled, and he lifted a pained look up towards Sandor. "What happened?" He shook AWOL, hard despite the throbbing pain of his broken hand.

"Lorenzo and Half-Stroke bailed," the man choked out. "They left Disco and Johnny and some of the girls alone at Moriarti's."

Stumbling backwards, Sandor felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him, the words barreling through him with startling force. He turned to Bronn, eyes stinging from the smoke as he stared at the man who hadn't moved.

"You knew, and you didn't tell me?" He hurled the accusation and hoped he would be proven a liar, but through his dreams and their accompanying dread, Sandor already knew. All along, he knew. Something had been wrong,  _terribly_ wrong. Sansa knew too. She understood these things, these things he always scoffed at, these otherworldly whisperings.

"I didn't know he was sending men there." Bronn's voice was fraught and fractured as he spoke, calling after Sandor who was already gone, running back towards where they had come. "I thought it would be better to keep our strength here."

Hand gripping his side as he struggled against the pain, Sandor sprinted towards the building, not knowing if any of his men would follow. He turned the corner of the building, stumbling as he caught his breath and reaching out to steady himself.

From behind him, he could hear the ground crunch beneath another pair of feet following along. One of his men was trailing after him. It was all he needed, at least one other to stand by him, to be there with him now. He didn't turn to see who it was, but continued on, as fast as he could through blinding pain and broken bones.

The air reeked of burning flesh. Where there should have been relief decades in the making, there was only the maddening sense of urgency, and a final understanding that something had gone horribly wrong.

His dreams had augured death before, and when he awoke this morning, Sandor refused to believe it could happen again. The dread persisted, and he understood with alarming and painful awareness that it  _would_ happen again. In a night where true horror reigned and there was no reprieve from dread, death was not done collecting its dues.

* * *

If she survived come morning, Sansa would tell the tale of how Alberto died in her arms. The patriarch of one of the most prolific organized crime syndicates left the world shaking and helpless. That was death's grand irony – how it struck the mighty down with its cold blow and how the beginning of life is just as frightening as its end. Crying and writhing against it, we come, and we go.

In his last moments, Moriarti had settled in her arms, quiet and no longer squirming against the pain. Sansa had been afraid to look at him then. She didn't want to see the light leave his eyes, but curiosity bid her to glance down at his head resting in her lap. He was still breathing through blood and through tears but was looking up towards the ceiling, and he smiled suddenly, blissfully unaware of the world around him. He wasn't a part of it anymore. With one foot in this life and one in the next, someone had come for Moriarti on the other side of the veil. He reached his hand out as best he could, arm shaking before ultimately falling to his side, and Sansa heard him speak her name.

"Francisca."

It was a hiss, a ghastly death rattle, but he smiled once more as if it were an angel's name he spoke. Perhaps, it was. His angel of death had come for him - taking the form of the one he cherished the most in his life. She would lead him away in his hour of letting go. Alberto could never know the unlikely way he comforted Sansa as she watched him leave the world, his eyes drifting closed and his lips slightly parted to receive death's kiss.

In the garage, the men – a dozen in total – had encircled the women as they rained down their terror with devious delight. Their eyes appeared black against the fluorescent light, so dark and empty, utterly disturbing to look upon.

When they came pouring into the garage, screaming and howling in a chaotic manner, Sansa had expected a quick death. There were sixteen Moriarti men charged with protecting them, and all sixteen were dealt with swiftly, one by one. By the way these men casually strolled into the open space and made themselves comfortable throughout – settled against walls, sitting on whatever would make an adequate seat – she knew it wasn't quick deaths they had in store for Sansa and the other women.

*** They first chose a woman Sansa did not know. The dark-eyed men dragged her forward, in front of all the other women who gasped and cried, while the men, laughed and cheered, feeding off of the fear they were inflicting. In her naiveté or perhaps another lie meant to comfort, Sansa thought they might just kill the woman. Horrible though that thought was, it would be a kindness, she realized, in comparison to what these men had planned. Rather than the indiscriminate shower of bullets and glass the Moriarti men upstairs fell victim to, their women downstairs would be given their punishments deliberately and alone. When one of the men stepped forward, pushing the woman to the floor and tearing at her dress, Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and clung to Alberto's lifeless body.

*** On it went, for. For how long, she did not know. Sansa's body ached from how violently she had been shaking, and her head throbbed from her eyes still squeezed shut.

Sansa willed herself a thousand miles away, somewhere far from where she was now. It would not work in body, of course, but her mind and soul could escape to some sanctuary. No one would find her there, and she could await her fate adrift in thoughts so very far away. Through this, she had eventually reached a fragile state of calm. There would be no immersion in this particular set of fears. Her soul would not survive their brutal reality. An escape through spirit was perhaps her only hope of reprieve.

It was shattered, though, when the garage became silent. The screams had quieted to dull whimpers, while heavy footfalls again neared the women.

"The boss' girl," a man bellowed. "Where is she?"

Sansa opened her eyes, and the painful trembling began again, reigniting the soreness of her limbs. She could barely move and merely shifted from side to side. Nina began to sob next to her, the woman's crying no longer silent but coming in hiccupping gasps.

"Her."

The sound of another man's voice echoed all around, and when Sansa flashed a petrified stare towards the source of the voice, she expected the man to be pointing at her. It wasn't Sansa the man was pointing to, though. It was Roxie, whose eyes were wild with panic and bewilderment. Before she could protest, the woman was dragged forward and thrown at the feet of the man who appeared to be in charge. He looked like an animal; there was no better way to describe him. His features were heavy and thick – brow, nose, jaw, and cheeks – and his eyes beady and black. His hair was long and appeared brittle, pulled away from the harsh features of his face.

On hands and knees, Roxie began to cry before a kick cracked hard against her side. Lying on the ground, her eyes searched for Sansa, pleading for her life, though she didn't speak. Only a whimper escaped the woman's lips, as she was snatched up by her hair and was pulled to her knees.

Without fear for her own life, Sansa flew to her feet. She hadn't thought it through, only knew that she wasn't going to let someone die in her place. Just as quickly as she stood, Nina was trying to pull her back down with a steady tug.

"No! What are you doing? No!" the woman urged beneath her breath, cheeks wet from tears.

All movement in the room seemed to stop at once. With the stillness came an unnerving silence as the men all turned their attention towards her. They were staring at Sansa, eyes glinting with unspeakable desires, and she felt the blood drain from her head all at once. She was dazed and breathless, her feet firmly planted where she was, despite the feeling that she was about to tumble to the ground.

The man who had misidentified Roxie studied Sansa, scouring her face before recognition seemed to bloom. She had never seen this man before in her life, and yet he was staring at her as if he knew who she was, as if he had seen her before.

"Wait, no," he called out, as he shifted his eyes between Roxie and Sansa. "That's her! That's the one. The redhead."

"Then who the fuck is she?" the man in charge shouted, motioning towards Roxie. His face was turning red, the veins in his neck now bulging, clearly enraged at the mix up.

"I don't know. A side piece, maybe. I saw her with him at a funeral. I even followed them back here afterwards."

As the man pleaded his case, Roxie began to cry, and she slumped to the ground, perhaps in relief for her life seemingly spared or maybe in fear that there was something awful planned for her as well.

The man in charge fixed his eyes on Sansa, and they remained on her, so steadfast and sinister that she, too, felt tears streaming down her cheeks. His was the face of evil, and he was staring back at her as he lowered the gun to Roxie's head and pulled the trigger.

With the sound of the gunshot, Sansa felt the air leave her lungs in a sharp gasp. The women gathered in the room cried out all at once. No longer strong enough to stand, her knees gave out. She fell to the floor, a sob breaking free as she went.

The man nearest to where she was lurched forward. Nina was bawling next to her, grabbing onto Sansa for dear life as he came up behind her. The man coiled his hands hard around Sansa's arms and yanked her to her feet. When she stumbled, he dragged her across the room, wasting no time as he bounded towards the door leading to the halls of the basement.

She wanted to run, but when she kicked and writhed, the man's grip clamped harder around her arms until she squealed and was pacified through pain. If she could break free, she'd use the darkness of the basement as a shelter. It was never the darkness she feared in the first place but what it housed. Now, she came face-to-face with the wickedness that she had sensed was there all along. The man in charge was behind her as well. She felt him press something cold and metallic against the back of her neck – a silent threat that she chose to heed.

Sansa was forced upstairs, and the man in charge commanded her to lead them to the bed she shared with Sandor. When she wasn't walking fast enough, a hand shoved her hard between the shoulder blades, and the end of the gun rested against her cheek.

Through the kitchen and in the foyer, she passed the lifeless forms of Sandor's men. She caught only a glimpse as she was pushed towards the foyer. Dark pools were set against the tile where the men had bled out. It was something out of a horror film. She tried not to look and shifted her eyes wherever she could, but it didn't matter. There was blood, so much blood – splattered up and down the walls, puddles on the floor, in streaks and in handprints, all gruesome indicators of the struggle that had ensued. Sansa began shaking once more and could no longer walk without stumbling or slowing her pace. The man behind her was growing impatient. So much so, he grabbed her by the hair, tugging her along down the upstairs hall, paying no mind to how she cried out.

Sansa's heart dropped when she was shoved into the bedroom she shared with Sandor. Hope and composure fled when the door shut behind her. In the shadows, she could see his belongings, the pieces of him scattered about – a shirt casually tossed over the back of the chair in the corner, his watch on the dresser, a pair of his shoes in front of the mirror. When she was forced to the bed, the pillow and sheets still smelled of him – masculine and familiar. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend he was there, comfort through yet another lie.

There was one truth that was now unavoidable, the one that had haunted her through the night, the one hidden in the shadows she so thoroughly feared. She would not survive until morning. It was clear to her now. There would be no tales told of how Moriarti died in her arms or how she had endured despite the horror, just like Sandor would have wanted. There were no lies to comfort the inevitability of death. Sansa did all she knew to do. She closed her eyes, willing herself a thousand miles away, to his side, wherever he was so very far away.

* * *

Along the length of the building, the footsteps following behind him had stopped, but Sandor continued on. Faster, he went, something like a hobbling sprint, one leg swinging in front of the other. He was almost past the building, well on his way towards the hill beyond. The promise of relief and defeat over dread beckoned a dull smile.

A sharp sound punctured the calm of night and with it came a sharp pain. Faster, Sandor still ran, but his legs no longer swung one right in front of the other. He was stumbling now, and wetness at his lower back accompanied the pain. When he reached his hand around to feel, it was then Sandor understood what was happening. He wasn't given the chance to examine his hand, to find it dripping in fresh blood.

There was yet another sharp sound and another sharp pain – this time, in his shoulder. It was enough to bring him to his knees. When his hands met the ground below, he began to crawl. He was shaking, his vision suddenly rattled and ears ringing. Even in the panic he felt raging within, Sandor knew there was no possible way he could make it to safety, wherever that might be – far away perhaps, so very far away.

The next shot was closer to him, the impact more brutal. Had he not rolled to his back at the last moment, it would have landed at the base of his neck. Instead, the bullet was buried in his chest, right where he imagined his heart might be. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs, and he gasped, eyes wide to the sky above.

It only occurred to him in the very last moments to meet the eyes of the man looming over him. He was going to die tonight, and he couldn't possibly understand why it mattered to him to know, but Sandor looked anyway. He expected Martinez, hoped for a Severelli man. Staring back at him was one of his own men, and not just a young Turk with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove.

"Rat," Sandor choked on a snarl, blood pouring from his mouth and over his lips.

Murdoch pulled the trigger once more, and Sandor closed his eyes, flinching as the bullet found its intended target. It felt as if the right side of his face was missing, so numb and wet it was.

When another shot came, Sandor waited for its blow, bracing himself with what little he had left to sustain the impact. A different sort of pain came instead. It was the weight of an entire man collapsed on top of him.

He heard running, legs pounding against the ground like mad and the weight of Murdoch's lifeless body being pushed from off of him.

With as much useless curiosity, Sandor cracked his eyes open to look upon his savior, who had arrived one bullet too late.

"Sandor," Zulu heaved, hyperventilating. The kid was shaking like a leaf, mouth contorted in a strange sort of agony. "Boss, just don't close your eyes," the kid pleaded with him, hands trembling as they worked like tourniquets as best they could. Zulu let out a muffled whimper when he found himself at a loss of where to stop the blood. There was so much of it, even Sandor knew, pouring out from underneath him, spilling across his chest, from his lips, nose, the side of his face.  _Just don_ _'t close your eyes._ Though his vision was slowly leaving him, Sandor tried to follow Zulu's command. The sky above was radiant in its darkness, promising calm and an escape from the body that was letting go.

_I want to be up there._

Surely, it wasn't his own thought, but the struggle to keep his eyes open and the will to keep his heart beating was fleeing him now. It was then he began to feel tears forming in his eyes at the remembrance of why he had come to fear death so profoundly in the first place.

_Me and her. It was supposed to be me and her._

Sandor swore he had spoken the words out loud, so clear in his own ears they were, ringing through his head with pounding force. It wasn't words he was choking out though. It was sobs. With the strength that remained, his legs were twitching, and his hands were gripping the dirt, clawing and scratching until his arms were fully engulfed in a burning pain. He was crying because only now, when it was so very late in the hours of his life, did he come to fear death. Greater than the fear of death was the tremendous sense of loss. Death had robbed him of the life he had yet to lead, his life with her.

 _I don_ _'t want to close my eyes,_ he thought, tears spilling down his bloody cheeks and over lips that trembled to speak, to beg for his life to whoever would listen.

Zulu began to scream for the others. Hand twined with Sandor's, the kid called until his voice was hoarse and strained with panic. He could leave Sandor's side to get help, but that would also mean leaving Sandor to die alone. So the kid stayed, but he did not stop sounding the call, a siren screaming through the night.

When Sandor did finally close his eyes, another hand took his own, slender fingers finding their proper place tucked against his palm.  _Mirabelle,_ he thought with a flush of joy, it wasn't his sister's face he saw.

Sansa led him by the hand away from the sound of Zulu's screaming, and Sandor followed her. He turned around only once, and when he did, it was himself he saw laying on the ground and Zulu in agony over his body that was no longer moving.

 _'Where are we going?_ _'_ he asked Sansa when everything had grown silent.

She looked to him and smiled, pointing to the sky.  _'You and me,_ _'_ she spoke, but her eyes were now turned to the heavens.

 _'Me and you,_ _'_  he answered her. With that, he, too, turned his eyes to sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N:
> 
> My darling readers-
> 
> I can't imagine your feelings right now so I offer this by way of reassurance and comfort. There is still a lot of story to tell here. This is not the end.
> 
> Trust the process and have faith in me.
> 
> I have to give a tremendous thanks to the two supremely talented and wonderful ladies who selflessly beta'ed this monstrosity. Mendedheart1 has been my right-hand lady for over a year now. The story wouldn't be the same without her. I'd also like to thank riverlandsred who is now beta'ing this story as well. Our discussions on this chapter as well as the future of this story have propelled G&M to new heights. Her suggestions and thoughts were instrumental to this chapter. I'm blessed to have both of these ladies on board!
> 
> Thank you all for the support and love you continually give me. This chapter was difficult to write and I'm sure it was difficult to read as well.


	18. Volume I: Solitudinem fecerunt, pacem appelunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Violence, language, attempted sexual assault. This chapter does not depict a sexual assault.

**Gods and Monsters**

**Chapter 18, Vol. I**

_**Solitudinem fecerunt, pacem appelunt** _

_**(They made a desert and called it peace)** _

* * *

 

"What’ll you do when you see him?” Bronn tilted his head back and blew smoke from his lips with a smile, as though he liked the taste, and he liked the sky, which was dark with the promise of a summer storm. “Are you going to tell him about the shit coming down the pipelines for him if he doesn’t ease off?” 

The dock was run-down – wood rotten and soggy, though the wealth of Portland sprawled in gleaming opulence along the lake’s shore. Dressed to the nines and with dampness soaking into his skin, Sandor could hear the din of the city's finest behind him – all those crooked frauds and self-righteous charlatans.  

“I’m not going to tell Ned Stark a goddamn thing,” Sandor responded, but his words were no more than a murmur. He watched clouds gather in a black mass on the western horizon, and the wind whipped at the water, which lashed at the dock in turn. The sky above and the waters below were both in similar turmoil. 

Sandor’s stomach burned. He stared at the whiskey on the rocks in his hands, but it had gone down smooth because Nestor Royce spared no expense for his soirees. Bronn quieted too and flicked his cigarette into the unsettled waters of Oswego Lake.

"I have this sort of nightmare sometimes,” Bronn began, breaking the silence, “where the walls are caving in, and I’m running. I’m staring at my own goddamn legs, though, and they're not moving. Really, it's the world blazing past me, falling into the sun, and I’m what's left behind." 

Bronn fiddled with the keys in his pocket, feet swinging from the dock and eyes shifting to Sandor then, though they didn’t linger long. The silence between them was suddenly cumbersome and awkward. 

"You ever have that?" Bronn ventured. "I never can figure out what's worse: burning up with the whole damn world or being left in the dark with nothing to hang on to."   

"I don't mind the dark much." Sandor shrugged because his nightmares were never of the future, and he’d die a thousand and one deaths in darkness before he’d let the fire take him. 

"I think I'd rather burn," Bronn mumbled.  His eyes were to the sky, where thunder clapped and lightning flashed with sudden bursts of fire. When the light faded, Bronn was gone and so too was the din of the party, along with the whiskey in Sandor’s hands.

Something bubbled up from the depths of the lake. When it broke the surface, Sandor tumbled forward into the water.  Though Bronn was gone, the sound of the keys in his pocket remained – a dull clanking, metal brushing against metal. 

The lights of Portland – glittering against turbulent waters and bleeding into a stormy sky – receded. What Sandor thought was water was really a void; endless in its darkness and with no current to guide the way. He chased after the sound of car keys until Bronn’s muddled voice came again, as though he were hollering from the dock somewhere up above.

“He’s not going to hang on much longer, so you better tell them to quit taking their sweet goddamn time and hurry the fuck up!”

Bronn's voice was breathless through a heave, and the darkened void’s true nature was revealed at the sound of Bronn’s panicked shouts. All that was known to be as black and silent as the muted stars was nothing compared to the void. There were no words and no place on earth from which to draw a reasonable comparison. The void was nothing, but now his everything – the thoughtless existence that numbed the pain only to breed an inexplicable agony. With its infinite darkness – a black hole for lost souls – the void had a peculiar proclivity for consumption. A hungry beast, it swallowed all he could give it – the pain and the light and the memories too. It took it all and still wanted more. 

“How far?”

When Bronn’s scream pierced through the darkness, a pain emerged in Sandor’s chest. His flesh felt as though it was being ripped apart, and the cage that held his heart was exploding open. 

“I hear it. I hear them coming.”

The screaming dissolved into a song, undulating so gentle and sweet that the void receded to listen. Was that what was coming – the song bidding him to rest?  I hear it. I hear them coming.

When he thought the void would steal the song and return the silence, the screaming came nearer, and it wasn’t a song at all, but a ghastly requiem that yowled in a violent clamor. 

Where it had once been beautiful, the screaming was now shrill. He thought it might be an angry God, who had come in luminescent splendor to burn up the sky. The void fled now, leaving him behind to suffer in tortuous affliction. His head was ablaze with a flame he had never known; its heat so wholly unfamiliar and unusual that he wondered if this was the hell he deserved, instead of the one he had asked for. 

A choir of voices came when the screaming stopped, but the song they sang faded gradually, soft like little bells until they held an old familiarity that exacerbated the pain in his chest.  What was it – the sound he knew so well when the voices were now those of strangers?

Whiskey on the rocks – ice chinking and liquid gently sloshing as it lapped at the glass. It was his best guess, but this remembrance was strange. He found himself thrust into someone else's dream – a boy of six, who sat at the dinner table, but there was no dinner that night. Hungry tummies were sent to bed, and no one cared much to argue over this. The vestiges of his family – Mirabelle, Gregor, and his father too – also sat at the table.

Standing behind a boy of six, Sandor stared at the wallpaper, yellowed and faded in long, hideous streaks. The boy seemed similarly fascinated by this detail. The streaks were from the sun's light bleeding through the window, but there was no sun at the table now, only bitter cold – the coldest night of that winter and any winters after. And there was that sound, the tinkling of ice and the splashing of liquid. The boy of six fidgeted in his seat and sat on his hands to drive in some warmth.

At six years old, Sandor had known even then what it meant when ice plummeted with an audible crack to the bottom of a glass.  His father rarely drank, but when he did, he made a fine deal of it.  A crystal lowball glass was usually pulled from the china cabinet shelf and slammed onto the countertop with enough force to draw the sound, but not shatter the glass. Ice chimed like a bell, and the liquor poured well into the midnight hour, accompanied by the crooning of Hank Williams or some other lovelorn cowboy.  

There was no crooning on that night.  The boy of six knew what the whiskey on the rocks meant. He sat in silence at the empty table, which separated him from his father. His hands were now warm, but he did not free them.  They were shaking because the table's emptiness spoke in a brutal plainness his father could not manage. 

“Your momma went to sleep,” the man finally declared, but his voice was hoarse, and his breath was soaked with the stench of drowned sorrows.  “Do you understand what that means?” 

The question was posed to Mirabelle, sitting at the end of the table braiding her doll’s hair.  She worried the strands between nimble fingers and paid no mind to their father’s face, drawn in grief.

“Is she tired?”

Mirabelle wasn’t even looking at their father when she asked the question. Gregor scoffed, a soft choking sound coming from his throat, as if the laughter were trying to escape.  

“She was very tired.”

His father’s words were hard and labored, thick in a way the boy had never known and tremulous too. The man swirled the glass slowly. The ice chimed and liquid sloshed, and the boy of six looked to his father then. Years later, the boy would remember this moment. The tears barreled down his father's cheeks, spotted with age, and the man's brow crinkled, as if he were being ripped apart from the inside out. 

“Your momma closed her eyes, and the angels sang her to sleep, Mirabelle.”  

His sister was only three and Sandor envied her then – the way she continued to braid her doll's hair, as if it were the only thing that mattered, and the way she lifted her head and looked their father in the eye.   

“Can I be excused?” her little voice asked, calm as the winter's wind which brought the cold. 

She didn't understand, the boy knew. How could she? She was a baby, and all she cared about were her dollies or the gibberish songs she sang that made her burst into giggles. She couldn’t understand, but his sister had crawled into his bed later that night anyhow. He lifted the blanket to let her in, and she trembled against his side, her tiny feet like blocks of ice on his bare legs. 

“Does God abandon us when we die?” she whispered in the darkness, sending a shiver down his spine. 

“No. Who told you that?” he demanded to know, horrified she had even asked. 

“Gregor.”

Her little breaths hit his cheek in warm, rhythmic bursts, but her fingers were frigid coils around his arm. “He said momma will burn in hell for going to sleep. He said there were no angels, only quiet and dark. He told me. He said so.”

His sister’s words planted a fear in him that grew wild from within. Years later, when the boy of six became a man, he'd remember this moment. He’d think of it often when his hands were soaked with the blood of others. He'd wonder if God abandoned those unworthy of salvation and if he was destined to some cold and silent hell.  He'd venerate chaos. He'd watch monsters become the Gods of men, and he'd exalt in the revelation that neither salvation nor justice is promised in the end, only darkness and silence. He'd come to believe that God was built on the feeble hopes of the human spirit, which cannot fathom the void without unveiling the meaningless subterfuge of human existence. And the day would come when he'd realize that if God abandoned him in the end, it was what he deserved. He had abandoned God too because the boy of six lost more than his mother on a cold winter's night. 

“Gregor’s a liar. It's not true," the boy whispered to his sister, though the doubt was creeping in, as sure as the shadows. "Momma went to sleep, Mirabelle. The angels sang to her, and she went to sleep just like Papa said, but she woke up again.  When she did, there were lights and singing. Everything she ever loved was there, except you.  She’ll sing with the angels now until you come for her, but that won’t be until you’re an old lady.”

Despite his doubts, the words seemed to comfort Mirabelle. She stilled next to him and only then, in the absence of her shivering, did he realize that she had been crying.  Mirabelle understood. From then on out, her dollies were left in the toy box, their hair a gnarled mess of tangles, and her songs were no longer gibberish that made her giggle, but solemn tunes she sang on a whisper. 

“And you, Sandor? You’ll come too?” the girl of three asked, and he knew by the way her cold fingers gripped him, strength brought on by fear, that she hung on his every word.  

“I’ll come too when I'm old and tired," was all the boy of six said to his sister, a baby no longer. 

Terrible thoughts kept the boy of six awake that night, as he shivered in the dark, because, if his momma went to hell for a tummy ache, what did that mean for someone like Gregor or even him?

At six years old, Sandor hadn't known then what really happened to his mother.  All he knew was that she had gone to the hospital because her tummy ached. That was what the neighbor, Mr. Marsh, had told him when he picked Sandor up from school in his big, red truck that day. Thirty minutes after all the other children had been loaded onto buses or into their mothers’ cars, Mr. Marsh pulled up, and Sandor sprinted from the playground swing-sets towards the truck. The kind old man with a lazy Southern drawl and boisterous laugh flung open the passenger side door, hollering for Sandor to hop in.  When he did, Mirabelle was in the back seat, laughing like a loon, and they rode home in Mr. Marsh's truck, pretending to be firemen racing to the rescue of an imagined fire. 

It wasn't until years later that Sandor learned the truth. While he rode around in a make-believe fire truck – head out the window and Mirabelle barking in the back seat like a Dalmatian – his mother's insides were burning with a cocktail of poisons she had mixed in there – pink pills, yellow pills, and white pills too.  She had swallowed them down by the fistful, and the good doctors had pumped her stomach until there was nothing left. Their efforts couldn't reverse the fact that she had waited too long to tell their father. A mess of vomit and tears, she had apparently collapsed in his arms, begging for forgiveness. In the end, it was too late.  

A few days later, when their father was busy arranging their mother's funeral, Mirabelle and Sandor were dropped off at Mr. Marsh's house. The old man smoked a pipe in his tattered recliner, not talking much and dozing off during Jeopardy, while Mirabelle and Sandor sat silently next to one another on the floor. For dinner, Mr. Marsh laid out a spread of Ho-Hos, Spaghetti O's, corn dogs, and sweet tea. Sandor ate like a king that night, but when his belly ached with sharp pains a few hours later, he began to cry. His momma died from a tummy ache and went to hell because of it. He hid his tears as best he could, but Mr. Marsh still heard the whimpering.  

"What's the matter with you, boy?" the old man's voice had boomed from across the living room, a toothpick dangling between his lips.  

Sandor's cheeks had flamed red, and he swiped at the tears because firemen weren't supposed to cry. 

"My tummy." He had pointed to it, shame filling him to the brim as Mr. Marsh considered him with furrowed, bushy brows. "It hurts, just like my momma's did." Full of fright, Sandor had lifted tear-filled eyes to the old man. "Am I going to die too?"

The toothpick fell free from Mr. Marsh's mouth and landed against his beer belly.  His head fell back, and a hearty laugh exploded through his lips. 

"God almighty, no!" Mr. Marsh had hooted, cheeks ruddy from laughter. "You ate too many corn dogs and Ho-Hos is all." The old man had lit up his tobacco pipe then and patted Sandor on the shoulder, staring down at him with a warm smile. "It ain't your time, son. Ain’t your time.”

Three years later, Gregor had pushed Sandor’s face into a pile of burning leaves, and Mr. Marsh had been the one to rip Gregor off of him. In Mr. Marsh’s arms, Sandor wailed as the man ran towards the house, voice bellowing across the yard for someone to call for help. With the screaming of sirens, an ambulance carried Sandor off to the hospital. Never again did he want a ride in Mr. Marsh’s big, red truck or to rush to the scene of an imaginary fire.

The old man with a lazy Southern drawl and a boisterous laugh smoked his tobacco pipes until the day he died, even after the doctors told him about the mass in his lung. 

“Dying feels an awful lot like living,” Mr. Marsh confessed to Sandor one day as they sat on his porch and drank iced tea. His beer belly had vanished, his cheeks had hollowed, and his bushy brows had thinned to grey wisps. Mr. Marsh passed a few days later, dozing off in his tattered recliner with Jeopardy on the television and a toothpick between his lips. He died like he lived and so too would Sandor.

The moments that mattered came pouring forth all at once, the edges blurring and colors bleeding together. Lost memories came and went with flashes of light that faded to black, a thousand and one deaths in darkness. Sounds were a symphony; voices drifted from conversations long forgotten. He was running to keep up, but the world was blazing past him, falling into the sun, which lit up the darkness in colors blinding and beautiful. Voices shouting from the dock above breached the waters of the void, which had calmed now although his body felt heavy and burdensome, drifting with a sudden current.

"Hold it there. Tight – you hear me? Tight! As tight as you can and don't let go." 

The shouting of commands ebbed and flowed. Sirens were screaming in the night. Hands gripped his side, prodded at the shattered cage that held his heart, and doused the unusual flame that licked his face. The void dispersed, bending the knee to something greater, and he was floating, rising in the water towards lights glittering up above. With a boisterous laugh and a lazy Southern drawl, a voice broke through the water, pulling him to the surface.

“It ain’t your time, son. Ain’t your time.” 

* * *

“You’ll die tonight. You know that, right?”

Hot against her skin and breathed from the man's lips, the question came for the third time since she was pushed to the bed. He tasted parts of Sansa sacred to another man. On her neck, against her cheek, the swell of her breasts – he'd threaten again, ask again, and taste again. 

The man was heavy on top of her. His body was hard and warm, and his questions and kisses stank of stale tobacco smoke.  Her skin crawled, her stomach lurched, and, every time he asked his question, the man would lift his head to look at her.  He'd smile with perverted delight at her disgust and continue his sickening ministrations. The sacrilege wore on, and for the third time, Sansa refused to honor the man’s question with an answer.

Instead, she cast her gaze towards the window. The curtains were drawn, and outside the moon had gone dark, the clouds sweeping in when she wasn't looking. An old familiarity drew her attention, and the night beyond the window was terribly reminiscent of the night she had come here.  Sansa recognized it in the way the moon was hung cruel in a starless sky, the heavens empty.

White dress grazing the skin of her thighs, Sansa had a party to attend on that night, so many months ago. She had felt pretty and wished with dark desire and a fool's heart that she could fall down a rabbit hole to another world. On that night, she had found her father staring out the window at a storm raging towards them. Papers strewn about his desk, he was toiling over a man he'd chased through the years, a man who inspired her father’s fears and frustrations, a man who stole her away and took her heart for good measure.  

Everything had changed that night and, when Sansa thought of her father, inevitably she remembered his shadow in front of the window, auguring what he could from an unsettled sky. If she knew then what she did now, Sansa would have recognized the sun setting with trouble and worry on a night that had felt heavy with impending portent. Even her father had known something was terribly wrong. He had a way of recognizing the harbingers of unsettled times as they loomed on the horizon, and he’d stand in front of the window, waiting for misfortune to come rolling in. The worry kept him up at night, and she’d hear him in his office well into the quiet hours of morning, pacing the floor with a heavy cadence and stopping where she imagined the window must’ve been, watching and waiting.

On those nights, her father would stumble on the truths that were inevitably dredged up in his work. Sansa meant to ask him about those truths and what light they shed, but then she'd find him staring out the window of his office with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He'd stare and she'd watch, meaning to ask, but she never could find the courage. He struggled with humanity on those nights so dark – on the humanity of others, as well as his own.

What justice could he do if the world was built unevenly, tilted on the axis of good and evil, so that some suffered senselessly, while others reaped the harvest of undeserving joy? Justice was his God, but on those nights, he stopped believing and she asked him only once what was the matter. He had said to her: "The world will rob you blind of your humanity if you let it. Don't let it." He shooed her off to bed, and she went to sleep that night staring up at a starless sky, wondering what he meant, because the world as she knew it then had been sweet and God had been just. 

Sansa cried now with mournful whimpers. She cried with regret for the innocence she had so blindly taken for granted, cried with fear for the innocence she had yet to lose, and cried because she wished she could take back the naive desires, which had tempted fate. The man's lips grazed Sansa's cheek, and he seemed to have deciphered the wetness against his mouth. He shifted to look at her just as the shroud of clouds lifted and the moon returned. In the dim, silver light spilling through the window, she could see the shadows settled firm on the man's face, and the dark pools that were his eyes.

When he saw her tears, he laughed, and she felt the rumbling against her belly, the burst of breath against her cheek, and the stench of cigarettes that followed. Sansa clenched her legs together, tight as a vice, as his hands fumbled at the hem of her shirt and smoothed over her stomach. 

Her skin prickled against his touch.  His hands were warm and clammy. Beads of sweat had formed on his balding forehead, which she could feel when he pressed his chapped lips to the hollow of her neck. He was staring at her now, waiting for her to meet his gaze again. She could tell by the rhythm of his chest meeting hers that her defiance was making him angry.

Or perhaps the silence angered him. She had gone cold and still beneath him, and the man surely must have wondered what brought the calm. This was the last dignity she had left, and he meant to take it from her. He clenched her chin, so tight she yelped, and snapped her head to meet his eyes.

“You think he’s coming for you, don’t you?” the man demanded.

If she lied, he might not know. She had turned her head, not in defiance, but in recognition that tragedy came when the moon went black and the clouds came sweeping in. It loomed thick on the horizon and even foolish hearts knew to hold fast to all that they cherished. The pillow that cradled her cheek soaked up her tears and released the musky scent of aftershave and faint traces of cologne. She cried all the more because of it.

In early mornings past, Sandor would slip from their bed, and Sansa never knew he was gone until she felt the mattress dip when he settled beside her again. He'd smell of soap, aftershave, and cologne, and she'd keep her eyes shut, pretending to be asleep. Kisses were pressed to her cheek – slow and soft, just the way she liked it – and words were whispered in her ear, his morning confessions. He loved her, he needed her, and he never wanted to let her go.

Sandor would leave to start his day, and Sansa would roll over, burying her face in his pillow, breathing him in until her chest ached with sweet, solemn heaviness. She had made a habit of playing this game – missing him until she was short of breath and aching in his absence until he came in the afternoon.

And those afternoons were reserved for acting out all his confessions. Sandor would touch her then like he never wanted to stop, and she'd beg him not to. With his hands on her hips and his lips worshiping the parts of her he craved the most, Sansa would murmur and moan her own confessions. The prayer from her lips: she loved him with a madness that tempted mania, needed him so badly it burned her up by night, and they had come too far to ever let go. There was no going back, even if there was hell to pay because of it.

His pillow still smelled of him, but if Sansa closed her eyes, she couldn’t pretend the weight on top of her was Sandor or that his confessions were a breath away from being whispered in her ear.

He wasn’t coming for her, and Sansa couldn't quite place from where the burden of truth came. With the moon racing across the sky, something had changed, and she felt it seeping into her bones.

“No, I don’t think he's coming for me.” 

Her voice was soft – a whisper in the dark – but when she spoke the truth for herself, it came harder than she imagined. It clawed at her throat on the way out, beckoned a stream of fresh tears, and she broke apart all the same, wondering what good the truth was anyway. She had finally spoken that truth because a lie would be a relic of innocence she had lost so many months ago. As if to scorn her newfound alliance with truth, she again smelled Sandor against the pillow, and her chest ached, but the heaviness was solemn without the sweetness.

“You remember that he left you here," the man whispered back to her, his mouth pressed against her ear and his hands unfastening his belt buckle. "You think about that when I’m fucking you. When you get all angry that this is happening to you, think about the man who left you here to die.”

Shame burned through her now as the man pried her legs apart.  When Sansa thought of Sandor, the mornings to come were what railed against her conscience.  She'd tell him of the blasphemy endured in the bed they shared, but his own confessions were now a blank space in her mind.  Would they still be of love, need, and the desire to never let her go? The thought was relinquished because thrice she had been promised death, and there was that sky and that moon, both of which had changed when she wasn't looking. The world was suddenly painted in different colors.

Sounds of struggle sounded out from a distance, too far for Sansa to discern what they were, but loud enough to break the cold, heavy stillness in the bedroom. Moments later, gunshots came from deep within the belly of the mansion, moving in closer with a steady push. After the earlier barrage of bullets and glass, these now familiar sounds no longer frightened her. Instead, her ears tuned in to a pair of soft footsteps down the hall. They caught her attention and only then did she feel the cold hand of fear grip her racing heart.

The man left his belt to dangle, his pants were half-unzipped, and he was staring at the door with a discernable fright that softened the shadows of his face and shallowed the pools of his eyes. He’d also noticed the footsteps. From across the room, the second man dashed towards the door, but stopped when the man on top of her lifted a hand.

Sansa had almost forgotten the second man was there.  He had been perched against the dresser; his pleasure coming from watching her torment, it would seem.

For a moment, everything settled to an eerie silence.  The gunshots ceased, and the footsteps stilled somewhere outside the bedroom door.  In that quiet moment, Sansa studied the man sitting on top of her. His eyes darted towards the door, his skin paled, and his body stiffened as his fingers sifted through the bed sheets. He was sitting on her thighs, the force of his weight feeling as though it would break her legs in half.

Sansa whimpered in response, and the man clamped his hand down hard on her mouth. His other hand found what he was looking for amongst the sheets, and he pulled his gun free. Movement rustled somewhere outside the bedroom, but before the man could lift his gun, the door flew open and slammed against the adjacent wall.

"Get your hands up where I can see them!" a shadowed figured in the doorway shouted. He darted into the room from the hallway with bravado enough for Sansa to instantly venerate him as her savior. 

His badge caught the light coming through the window, and the end of his gun methodically shifted between the two men in the room. 

"Get them up now!" the officer screamed when neither of the men made a move. 

Sansa could barely breathe.  The man on top of her had shifted his weight against her middle, and her breaths were more like wheezing gasps.  If he feared for his life, she wouldn't have known.  His movements – fast, assured, and crushing her ribs – certainly suggested he didn’t. His arms both went up, but only to cradle his gun in his hands as he aimed. Two shots rang out – one right after the other. The sound exploded through Sansa's ears, and her body buzzed with the blood pumping through her veins.  

The man fell hard on top of her, his weight crashing against her chest, his limbs limp and sprawled awkwardly across her.  In identical fashion, the officer slumped against the wall, trailing a smear of blood as he went.  His body contorted into a ghastly shape, jack-knifed in on itself, and the left half of his head was splattered against the wall.

The pain in Sansa's chest settled hard as a rock in her belly. The booming sounds she knew to be gunfire echoed throughout the house and were now accompanied with screams.  

The side of her face was warm with blood spilling from the man's head, soaking against her cheek and seeping into her hair.  Sansa squirmed with his dead weight on top of her, and her limbs thrashed against him, but he did not budge.  The second man, the man she’d almost forgot, came bounding towards the bed.  Her free hand frantically fisted the sheets until her fingers brushed against the warm metal of a gun's barrel.  

When the second man reached the bed, he yanked the dead man off of Sansa. As soon as the weight was lifted, she slid in the other direction across the bed, scooping up the gun as she went and concealing it against her middle. When her feet hit the ground, she whirled around, arms outstretched and the gun cutting through the air as she lifted it towards the man.

He stood on the opposite side of the bed, his figure nothing more than an obscured silhouette in front of the window. He mimicked her motions: his arms rose swift and strong, and his gun pointed towards her with unwavering, deadly intentions. Whereas her arms and hands were shaking in an embarrassing display of blatant fear, he held his ground firmly and glided in slow, effortless movements around the bed.

Sansa stepped backwards to maintain the distance.  Ankles rolling with each step and knees ready to buckle at any moment, she stumbled her way towards the wall.  Although the police officer was dead, her savior soaked in blood, she moved towards him anyway. The man laughed, and she went cold, her arms numb with a tingling that eased through her body. 

"You can't do it," he chuckled, and for a moment, she believed him.  There was much to be conjured from the darkness – both real and imagined fears.  She now feared the man knew she could falter in taking a life to save her own.

The gun in her hands became unbearably heavy, and she couldn't stop the trembling of her arms or the way the end of the gun barrel shifted with each uncontrolled shudder.

"Take your shot." The man deadpanned his words, blasé as though he couldn’t care less, but he inched towards her with a determination that spoke otherwise.  Sansa slid her back against the wall and fumbled her way towards the door, mindful as she stepped over the policeman's crumpled body. 

"Stay away from me,” she warned, weak with fear. “I’ll do it.” Her fingers adjusted around the pistol, and she wrapped it tight in her grip, white-knuckled for dear, sweet life.

"You don't have it in you." The man's voice drummed in slow cadence, matched with footsteps that came rhythmic, assured, and ever closer.  "I've killed women like you. Women who think they can save their own lives."

He smiled fondly, and the space between them was blanketed with a sudden heaviness, as if he spoke only proud truths.  Sansa reached the door, which was left wide open.  Against her back, she felt the cold chill of the open hall, but an understanding had formed between her and the man now a few feet away.  She wouldn't make it to the hallway alive. He'd kill her well before then, and he didn't have to ask her if she knew she was going to die. Like the other man, though, he wouldn't let her go without a self-important monologue, words for her to depart on.  

"You're are all the same. You bluff the same.  You beg for your life the same. You die the same. Women like you think that they––" 

A shot fired with enough force that Sansa stumbled backwards, and the gun in her hands jolted with a sudden recoil. With eyes squeezed shut, she waited for promised pain, for the wetness of blood to seep from her skin, but instead, all she heard was gurgling. When she finally opened her eyes, she saw that by sheer, dumb luck, the bullet had ripped through the man's neck in the space beneath his chin and beside his Adam's apple.

His knees hit the floor first, and the walls – from floorboard to ceiling – shook in an awful tremor. His torso followed, folding at his waist before he rolled onto his back. The blood poured through the gaping bullet hole, seeping out of his mouth as his lips moved, and his hands coiled around his neck in obvious agony. When he tried to speak, it only made things worse. He opened his mouth to beg for his life, which, by a strange irony, only hastened his death. Pain and blood, they seemed to come quick.

The man lifted a hand to Sansa, rolled onto his belly, and began to crawl towards her. He was choking on his own blood and collapsed at her feet.  She did not move, but instead looked down upon him when he turned to his back once more.

For the second time in one evening, she watched the way death dims the eye's light. Everyone told tall tales of light and life, which all sounded sweet, but the truth was those tales weren't made of sugar and doleful fondness.  The leaving of the light was really a tale of horror, of what keeps certain people up at night when blood stains their good name. Sansa watched the man die, though she hadn't meant to. He went quickly, the loss of blood too rapid and each heartbeat driving it out of him.  She watched as he died, and she thought of the blood on her name now, how it might keep her up at night, how the leaving of the light would haunt her.

When he was gone, she backed out of the room, terrified to take her eyes off of the man lest he come to life again and make her pay for what she had done, dragging her to hell with him. Halfway down the hall, it occurred to her to look back, but her feet were stumbling one foot in front of the next. Her sanctuary, where she and Sandor once whispered their confessions, was a defilement of blood and gore now. There was no going back. 

Sansa's vision blurred around the edges, and she heaved her breaths, watching as the light at the end of the hall narrowed with each labored push forward. She fell hard to her knees in the middle of the hall, somewhere outside of Mirabelle's bedroom door. She crawled along the floor, the gun wrapped in her hand clanking as she went.

When a pitter-patter of footsteps scrambled up the stairs, Sansa settled back on her knees and scooted flush with the wall to her left, gun at the ready in her grip.

Nina emerged from around the corner and pressed one finger hard against her lips, shaking her head with a chiding stare. Brigitta was close behind her, and the women helped Sansa to her feet, one on either side of her, but they did not speak. They knew of a threat she didn't, so Sansa let them lead her down the stairs without complaint or question. Nina took the gun from her hands, staring at it momentarily before casting a small, forlorn smile in Sansa's direction, tendrils of fleeting pride evident.

Gunshots thundered from the basement and shouts – indiscernible words and cries of pain – were heard in between the deafening hail of bullets.  It sounded as if hell was opening up beneath them, threatening to swallow the house whole. The front door of the mansion had been left wide open. It swayed lightly on its hinges, giving a gentle, metallic sigh with each breath of cold wind coming in from outside.  Moonlight spilled through, and the pools of blood in the foyer looked serene somehow, as they reflected the light. 

Clinging onto one another in a chain unbreakable, Sansa, Nina, and Brigitta rushed through the open door, such a simple escape as the nightmarish sounds howled from the basement. They raced down the steps of the front porch. A police car was parked in the front circle drive. The lights were on – a beacon in the night – but the officer was dead upstairs and, if he came with others, they were likely doomed to a similar fate. The women crept along the periphery of the mansion, crouched down and lurking in the shadows.  When they rounded the corner of the house, Nina spun around. There was a line of blood splatter extending across her cheek, down her neck, and over her chest.

"Stay quiet, and keep going.  You understand?" Her voice was a frantic whisper, her eyes wild with fear as they darted to and fro, scanning for danger behind them.

When she turned around again, Nina ran along the side of the mansion, towards the craggy slopes that lay well beyond Moriarti's property.  A retaining wall had been built-up at the far end of the back patio, tall enough to obscure them if they crouched down. They scurried across the open space where the house ended and the patio extended to their left. On the backside of the mansion, Sansa saw flashing lights, apparently from one more police car parked outside of the garage. She turned to Nina as they reached the end of the retaining wall and fell to their knees behind it.

“Where-–"

Sansa bit her tongue before the question spilled out of her lips.  She meant to ask where the other women were and why they were running. Sansa now noticed the blood saturating through both Nina and Brigitta’s clothing, yet neither seemed injured. She looked down at her own crimson-smeared shirt momentarily and knew then why the other women weren’t with them now. She also knew why they couldn’t stop running.

"Down is the only way to go." Nina peered over the edge of the earth some three feet from where they were.

The mansion was perched high on a hill, looming over the desert below. The valley was nothing more than desolate back roads, snaking through small, no-name towns dotted along the way. 

The rocky cliffs sloped in some places enough to promise them passage to the road at the bottom. In other places, the descent was a straight shot down, pocked with deep holes where the ground was hollowed out and inclines dropped off ten feet or more. From their vantage point, the journey to the valley appeared nearly impossible to traverse by day, let alone in complete darkness.   

Nina spoke truly, though.  Down was the only way for them, and so the descent began slowly with Nina keeping the pace. A hasty step would mean falling head over feet into the chasm and landing broken at the bottom. When the decline became too steep and the echo of gunfire could still be heard, they slid down on their bottoms, grabbing onto whatever they could along the way. Dried up roots and jagged rocks tore at Sansa's hands as she clung to them. They were feeble grips, which ripped at her palms, and yet they were the difference between gliding down with haphazard ease or falling towards certain injury, if not death.

Along the way, Nina continually insisted they keep quiet and keep going, though neither Sansa nor Brigitta had uttered a word to the contrary.  Sansa could barely hear Nina over the sound of shifting earth beneath her heels and the frenzied breaths escaping her lips. The decline gradually waned to a shallow slope, and Sansa regained her feet, though her legs were wobbly and holes were torn in the back of her leggings.

"Keep going, and don't look back," Nina implored once more.  Their leader hadn't spared the slightest of glances in the direction they had just come, but instead jumped between large boulders, which declined towards the empty road below.

Sansa watched in wonderment at the ease with which Nina left it all behind, eyes on the ground beneath her feet and the path ahead towards the road.

There's no going back.  Nothing will ever be the same again. 

Nina had meant this all along, though she hadn't said it so plainly. And when she spoke hardly loud enough for Sansa or Brigitta to hear, she did so because the mantra wasn't meant for them. 

Brigitta followed after Nina, gracefully hopping from the boulders with long, lithe limbs extended to maintain balance.  She sailed through the moonlight, looking like a dancer from one of Sansa's ballet classes as she made her way down.  Sansa watched, but she did not follow.  Instead, she felt a draw, which stilled her legs and beckoned her gaze backwards.

Don't you dare look back. Nothing will ever be the same again.  

She had looked back once before – the same draw, the same beckoning, and the same horror. With tears in her eyes, a heart smashed to bits and broken glass embedded in her skin, Sansa had seen the Royce mansion engulfed in flames, and though Podrick hadn't told her there was no going back or that nothing would ever be the same for them, he didn't have to. There was finality with flames, but what of Moriarti and the empire he had built so proudly through the years? It would perish alone in the darkness she no longer feared because the hearts of men had proven far more treacherous than imagined monsters. Everything would be lost with the night.  

Sansa turned around to look, spinning slowly on her heel, feet uneven against the solid rock of earth on which she was standing. As gravity pulled her to the ground, her eyes went up to the silhouette of the mansion perched high above her now.

From this angle, the lines were distorted, and the mansion rose in great height towards the sky, looking jarringly similar to the Tower she had once drawn from a Tarot deck. The fear that had, for so long, eluded her through grief found its way now. She had come here in fear and in fear she would go – ashes to ashes and dust to dust. It began as it ended.

Sansa lost her footing and fell against the rock, hard on the heels of her hands and the caps of her knees. The earth scraped and tore at her skin, and although it did not hurt so terribly much, she began to cry.  Fat teardrops rolled down her cheeks, and she felt something of a child again – stuck in a tree and too scared to move.

Just as gracefully as she had gone down, Brigitta ascended back up, her shadowed form bobbing up boulders towards Sansa.  When Brigitta reached her, she fell to her knees too and cupped Sansa's cheeks between her palms.

"Hey," she whispered softly. "It's going to be okay."

Sansa lifted her eyes to Brigitta, who was wiping away tears with the pads of her thumbs. Brigitta also had blood on her face, smeared across her forehead and cheek, but her eyes weren't wild like Nina's. When she smiled, it wasn't forlorn and faded, but bright as though she too could speak with conviction. Brigitta meant what she said because she put faith behind her words. 

When Sansa nodded with a sniffle, Brigitta lifted her to her feet.  She wrapped her fingers tightly around Sansa's palm and held her hand on the way down, going before her and not letting go until their feet landed on asphalt. 

Nina had waited for them, though her gaze momentarily flickered to Moriarti’s mansion high above them.  Her husband is up there, Sansa reminded herself, and Nina’s strength in not looking back was brought into full view. Nina knew what was lost to the night, and she knew that, despite her ability to rise above tragedy long enough to save her own life, she was powerless to stop the seemingly fated destruction of Alberto Moriarti and his organization. Nothing will ever be the same again.

The thought held new meaning, extending beyond Sansa and the two women encircling her, as they held onto all that was left. Ripped from the underworld, they were turned loose in the night’s ruthlessness, nothing to shelter them and ease the blow of loss. 

Nina contemplated the road in each direction, though it looked much the same on both sides.  

“There’s a town somewhere close to here,” Sansa informed tremulously.  She shook uncontrollably now, and her voice rattled from her lips, though she tried to ease it.

“Do you remember which way, sweetie?” Nina gently urged.

Sansa motioned towards the length of road running west, which eventually disappeared over the slope of a hill. They began in that direction; their trio of footfalls pattered against the pavement as they took hurried steps in double-time.

As they reached the top of the hill, their heavy breaths manifesting as grey puffs in the chilly air, a smattering of lights appeared off in the distance, glittering against the blanket of night.  According to Sandor, the town, the nearest one to Moriarti’s, was comprised of three trailer parks, a few gas stations, and a liquor store.  Desert trash, he called it, but the alternative was east. In that direction, there was nothing but the shadows of rising and falling earth, cutting through more darkness.

Standing on the shoulder of the road, all three of the women studied the town, measuring the distance.

“We’ve got to get to a phone,” Nina heaved and let herself fall to the ground with an exhausted sigh. “We’ve got to call for help.” 

She pulled her knees to her chest and rested her chin in the divot of space between her kneecaps, contemplating the town with emerging defeat.

Sansa crouched down next to Nina and scooted towards her until they were shoulder-to-shoulder. Nina smiled faintly at the contact, though her eyes betrayed her exhaustion.

Brigitta stood in front of them, digging into her back pocket until she pulled free a cell phone. She stared down at the screen, the soft light illuminating her face.  

“The signal is crappy here, and the battery is almost shot. I think we should head for the town anyway. I’ll probably be able to get a signal, and if the phone dies, we’ll be closer to help than we are here.”

Sansa nodded and rose to her feet, ignoring the sharp jolts of pain in her ribs. By instinct, she scanned the road behind them, and a childish fear emerged that she might find the man she had murdered, barreling towards her. The road was empty, but she knew the man – and his eyes as they lost their light – would haunt her in her dreams. 

Nina did not stand. She sat motionless and stared off with expressionless consideration of the dark road ahead of them.  Brigitta shot Sansa a worried glance before crouching down in front of Nina.

“Are you ready to go, or do you need a few minutes?” Brigitta probed gently.

Nina said nothing, but pushed herself to her feet. Sansa fell in by her side and looped her arm in Nina’s. They began down the road again towards the town. As their adrenaline waned, all three women moved slower, and each step came more painfully. Sansa did not ask what happened in the garage or where the blood staining Nina and Brigitta’s faces and clothes had come from. Nina limped slightly, most of her weight on her left leg, and her hobbling became more apparent the further they went. Brigitta clutched at her side from time to time and softly groaned through labored breaths when she did.

As for Sansa, the ache in her ribs had dulled, and she had forgotten the stinging against her palms where rocks had scraped at her skin.  Her knees were skinned, the boulder having easily torn through her leggings. Yet, she didn’t limp nor did she clutch her side where the man had jostled his weight so hard he may have cracked bones. 

Her hurts came silent, dwelling in her restless mind. The physical bumps and bruises were mere tokens of what would ultimately become a larger scar, not seen by others, but just as real to her. The nights to come would haunt her, and she’d fill the dark spaces of her mind with thoughts of what could have been, especially the threat that had been breathed in her ear three times. Never for a moment had she thought the man spoke falsely. She was supposed to die tonight and yet she trailed behind Nina and Brigitta who, despite their own bumps and bruises, hurried down the road, staying well off into the shadows and looking back every so often to make sure Sansa was still there. 

What happens if death is robbed of a promise?

Sansa slowed her pace and thought of the police officer – how brave he had been and how he died anyway – and all those women who were left as lambs to the slaughter. Death had more than its due, but fate dictated death’s rounds. It would not be cheated of what it was promised. She curled her fingers into her palm, unable to ignore its stinging any longer. 

“Are you okay?” Brigitta had stopped and turned around as she waited for Sansa.

She came to Sansa’s side then as they dawdled down the shoulder of the road. They were nearing the town, and a short distance from them, one single dirt road branched off from the larger road.

Sansa nodded. Nina had stopped too and now both women looked at one another and then to Sansa. They gathered close to her with worried eyes that tried not to linger too long or peer too invasively at the silent wounds Sansa wore.

“He didn’t…” Sansa began, but left it at that, shaking her head because she couldn’t say the words and wouldn’t name what didn’t matter now. It hadn’t happened, so she told herself it didn’t matter, though she feared that was a lie.  

Nina and Brigitta nodded softly. For a moment, all three women stood quietly amongst one another.

“The hard part is over. We’ll be okay now,” Brigitta assured. Through tears, Nina smiled faintly, more for Brigitta than herself.

They headed for the dirt road. It led them a short distance away from the main road, which was still visible from the first building they came to – a gas station that looked to have been out of business for some time.

Everything on the building had been stripped bare. The gas pumps had been cleared out, and only the metal shell of the overhang remained, along with an empty mechanic’s garage, worn from the sand and wind. The dirt road continued towards a trailer park, though the lights seemed dimmer now and the way ahead distinctly ominous.

“I’ve got a signal here,” Brigitta informed, as she held her phone up to the sky and followed the beacon of the screen’s light towards better reception. 

Sansa wrapped her arms around her middle and watched as Brigitta paced with the phone pressed against her ear. After a few moments, Brigitta shook her head and turned to Sansa and Nina.

“No answer!” she shouted towards them and threw her hands up in the air before dropping them back to her side. 

Nina lowered her head as Brigitta approached. There were tears welling in Nina’s eyes now and a fear that hadn’t been there moments earlier. 

“If my phone dies, we can head for the trailer park,” Brigitta suggested as Nina swiped at her cheeks.

Sansa cast a glance towards the trailer park, and the uneasiness she had written off moemnts ago now returned.  She reasoned with the voice that cautioned her not to go in that direction. There would be no other options for them.

“I think we should stay here,” Sansa countered, though the suggestion seemed ridiculous as she spoke it out loud.

Before she could say much more and before either of the women could respond, the phone in Brigitta’s hand lit up, and Brigitta dashed towards the open space beyond the overhang to answer.

"Baby, where are you?" she cried into the phone. The wildness came out then as her words dissolved into disjointed pleas. "They left us! Everyone's gone. The police came. They're gone.  They're...everyone...please. Please come get us. Please hurry. Please!"

Brigitta fell silent, but was nodding her head as she stared down the road stretching east, the direction from which they had come.

“The town by Moriarti’s – the one right off the state road, by the trailer parks. We’re at some abandoned gas station. My phone’s going to die, but please hurry and don’t hang up.”

“Fuck!” Brigitta pulled the phone away from her face, whimpering as the screen went black. She pressed the buttons frantically, smashing them with her fingers for all the good it did.

“They’re coming,” Brigitta sighed tremulously as Nina and Sansa gathered close to her. 

Sansa’s knees nearly buckled, and every ache emerged in concert. Yet, in spite of these physical pains, her lips pulled into the faintest of smiles.

Sandor’s coming for me. I only have to hold on a little longer.

Soon, she’d be in his arms, and the hurts would seem a lifetime away. As if in answer to her thoughts, a pair of lights emerged on the far horizon. The lights raced towards them, disappearing intermittently with dips in the road before reemerging closer to them and traveling faster. 

“We don’t know for sure that that’s them,” Nina warned as she tugged on Sansa and Brigitta. They ran towards the mechanic’s garage, pressing themselves up against the building. The car slowed slightly as it turned onto the dirt road and sped towards the gas station.  In front of the hollowed out gas pumps, it ground to a halt, the back end of the car fish-tailing until it came to a stop. 

The driver side door was kicked open, and AWOL careened from the vehicle. His face was a visage of dread – eyes wide and lips parting to exhale a worried breath when he found Brigitta in the darkness.  She stepped from the side of the building and into the light afforded by the car’s high beams. Brigitta’s phone dropped to the ground as she dashed towards him.

Sansa knew AWOL to be a hard man. His demeanor was an odd conglomeration of assured temperance and fiery anger, which she had heard was a force to be reckoned with, although he mastered unusual amounts of control over its manifestation. All that stoicism, the heavy-handed control he mastered over the emergence of his desires, fled from him as he ran towards Brigitta. Seeing her bloodied and trembling on the side of the road, AWOL could not reach her fast enough. When they collided into one another, he wrapped Brigitta up in his arms and held her tight against his chest.  

“’Gitta,” he breathed against the side of her cheek. He planted kisses against Brigitta’s forehead, one right after the other.  “Oh God, ‘Gitta. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry."

He was looking at the sky now, and Sansa followed his eyes up there, knowing that he was venerating whatever God had answered his prayers.  She saw then that he had been crying. Was it relief? The lingering anguish on his face said it was not, but she didn’t have it in her to ask what had happened to the rest of the men and why he looked as though the world was falling to pieces, leaving them behind to sort out the mess.

“Disco?” AWOL asked, faltering with decaying traces of hope in his voice. He turned to Nina who was walking towards him.

Nina shook her head and buried her face in her hands with a cry. Brigitta shifted in AWOL's arms, making space for Nina and consoling the woman as they huddled together.  

Sansa approached when she heard the sound of the car’s passenger door opening. Zulu emerged and began walking around the front of the car.  His eyes were to the ground, as they normally were, but this wasn't his usual timid reserve.  He was pale and shell-shocked, visibly shaking and moving as though it fatigued him to do so.

His shirt was soaked in blood, the same blood that was dried dark against the skin of his arms. With a trembling hand, he lifted a cigarette to his lips, eyes still glued to his feet. At first, Sansa thought he didn't see her, so she stepped closer. When he lifted his head, his gaze landed squarely on her. Tears were rolling over his strong bones and hollowed cheeks. Sandor's men were brutal and relentless, but their tears came as freely as Nina's and Sansa wondered what they had lost to the night.

He's hurt, Sansa thought.  Of course, he was hurting. There was so much blood – all down the front of him, soaked into his clothing and dried on exposed skin, although she couldn't see from where it was coming. Zulu shook his head, though Sansa hadn’t said anything.

He was staring at her, and when Sansa followed his eyes to her belly, she remembered now that she too was covered in blood. It was someone else's, and she then realized that the blood soaked into Zulu’s skin and clothing didn’t belong to him either.

She took another step towards him, but all she could do was wobble where she went, one weakened step in front of the other.  The night conspired to bring her to her knees, but, in an act of defiance, she refused.  Sansa held her head up and straightened her back with as much grace as she could manage because Sandor had asked only one thing of her tonight and that was to be strong for him.

“Sansa.”

Her name came with a struggle from Zulu’s lips and quivered in such an unusual way that Sansa no longer wondered whose blood he was wearing.

“Is he in the car?” she asked, striding towards the vehicle before the boy could answer. She walked along the car, hands pressed against it for purchase and feeling for the door handle.  

“Zulu, where is he? Is he coming?” Sansa demanded again when he hadn't answered.

The pit of her stomach twisted, and her breaths were now hard won. It wasn't Zulu's silence that was disconcerting.  She could feign strength in the face of silence, but not through the gasping and sniffles of the boy’s cries.

He's crying for Mr. Moriarti. He knows he's gone now.

Everyone loved Alberto.  Everyone loved him. They would cry for him now because they must know that he was gone. Of course, they did.  Why would Nina or Sansa or Brigitta leave Mr. Moriarti behind? AWOL and Zulu, they knew, and they cried for the man they loved so well.

But the others were watching her now, and Sansa could no longer hear AWOL consoling Nina. Nina was no longer shakily explaining all that had transpired on their end, all who had perished before their eyes, and all that was lost to them now. Their eyes were watching her, and when they all fell silent, the mask of strength she wore so well was ripped from her.

“Sansa.”

The ground shifted beneath Zulu’s feet as he said her name once more, but he stopped short of reaching her.  Sansa was pulling open the back door, certain she would find what she was looking for, but, after all these months, a fool's heart was still beating wild within her chest.

“Sandor,” she asserted, though conviction wasn't enough to conjure him.  The inside of the car was dark and warm from the heater, but it was empty. 

“He’s not in there, Sansa." 

AWOL was behind her, pulling her away from the car.  His hands gripped her forearms gently, and he worked to still her movements. Sansa spun away from him and slammed the door shut, tripping over her feet as she stumbled towards the road.

Her eyes scanned the direction from which Zulu and AWOL had come.  Another set of headlights would be there soon, just as they were before, bobbing and glowing and hurtling towards her because a promise had been made.

He said he’d come back to me. He promised.  

Sandor was strong, so much stronger than her, and she had survived.  Death had been promised to her three times, and yet she stood, watching and waiting for him to come. A bloody, dirty, trembling, and broken mess, she was still breathing, and though her legs were weak, she was standing on her own two feet. When he came, he wouldn’t find her on the ground. She could be strong for him now and fall apart later in the shelter of his arms, where he would tell her he told her so and that he wouldn't dare leave her alone in this world. Not now and not ever – he wouldn’t leave her.

As the road continued to hold only darkness, strength was thrown to the rising wind. Her legs were wobbly once more and tears pooled in her eyes, the recognition of truth stirring within. 

“Where is he?” Sansa shouted as she turned towards Zulu. 

His cheeks were wet and brow contorted in grief. He had the decency to look at her now, even though he stared at her only long enough to get the words out through the choking of sobs.

“I’m so sorry.” The release of breath, a thin wisp of words, came difficult and agonized. "I tried. I tried. I promise you I tried."

“No.” On shaky legs and with a hoarse voice, Sansa shook her head. “No, he’s coming. I know he is.”

In a lunacy brought on by the night, she smiled weakly when she said it. Her heart was either racing or breaking – perhaps both – because the pain in her chest came with a crushing blow, one she’d never felt before. It ripped through her with enough force that she stumbled as she spun towards the others.  

Sansa turned to AWOL to make a liar out of Zulu, to tell her that the boy had it all wrong. AWOL wasn't crying now like Zulu was, but he looked at Sansa with the empathy of a man who had suffered this manner of tragedy before.  Though AWOL was solemn, strong, and silent, the pain he held seemed to have traversed a lifetime and was never forgotten with passing days. It healed, perhaps, but the scars remained, and he could see them emerging in her too.

She turned away from AWOL. They had it all wrong. They didn't know the promise that Sandor made. It was him, and it was her. He had made a promise.

“No,” she whimpered, knees finally buckling with weakness. 

When the faithless search for answers, their eyes go to the sky, but their bodies go to the ground. And to the ground was where she went. Sansa collapsed in on herself, falling with a defeated thud, torn-up palms digging against the earth despite the stinging.

On hands and knees, her eyes went up anyway, searching for her answers. All she found was a starless expanse above.  Save a moon hung cruel, the heavens were empty tonight. 

"I'll do anything," she mumbled weakly towards the vacancy above her, a feeble and pitiful plea.

As a little girl, Sansa cried her eyes out, begging her Grandmother Tully to pluck her moon from the house of seven and mend the broken lines of her palm, but nothing could be done. The only promise that would be kept for Sansa was tragedy in love. She’d prayed for a man strong enough to withstand her ill-fated destiny. Sansa hoped it would be Sandor. She’d fallen down a rabbit hole after him and he’d made her a part of his world – the Queen to his King. Yet the moment she handed him her foolish heart, the house of seven and lines of her palm taunted her with their promises.   

Sandor was taken from her when the moon went dark, and in the absence of light, death came sweeping in to collect on promises made.  Sansa wasn’t looking for it before, but now she noticed how the world felt colder and the colors of her existence were muted.  Nothing would ever be the same again.

"Please," she pleaded, barely able to breathe, let alone speak, with a lump aching in her throat and cheeks burning hot though she was so very cold, shaking with an unearthly tremor.

The tears stung and her heart broke open. A swift kick of pain exploded against her middle, barreling through her, and she swore it was tearing her up from the inside out, hell bent on opening her up to bleed out the pain.  On hands and knees, she crawled, but collapsed against the ground again when her limbs refused to support her weight. 

“I can’t…” She choked on tears when the massive heaviness finally shattered against her chest.

“I can’t breathe,” she cried out between sobs piercing the night. “I can’t breathe,” she kept declaring against all indications that she could. Every sound she made was a gasp or a heave, but those breaths were stolen from her with ease, pulled from her lips with cries.  

Someone had gone to the ground with her, had crawled to her side and pressed their body against hers.  Their exhaled breaths rustled through Sansa's hair, and a soft hand glided over her shoulders.

Sansa's face was buried in the nook of her arm, but she tilted her head to look, and she found Brigitta lying down beside her, cheek pressed against the ground. The woman paid no mind to the dirt in her hair or the cold earth against her skin.

"I don’t know how to breathe," Sansa whispered.  Her weakened words dissolved into more tears from promises that were broken and those that were kept.

Brigitta took Sansa’s hand and pressed it to the flat of her chest beneath her collarbone. While holding Sansa’s hand there, she took a deep breath in and exhaled out. She didn't speak, but kept the rhythm strong and steady.  In and out, Brigitta kept breathing.  With the rise and fall of her chest, Sansa could do no more than follow along, learning how to breathe though she knew her heart would never beat the same again.

Up above, the clouds cleared, dispersing to reveal a starless expanse that foolish hearts deemed beautiful.  On the dark night of her soul, Sansa looked to the sky, and the answer she found was the same truth her father had uncovered all those times he watched the moon go dark:

The world was bitter, God was unjust, and everything had been lost to the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for hanging in there with me! I certainly had no intention of taking this long to update. Then again, I had no expectations for all the major life events that have occurred in the past nine months. It's been an adventure.
> 
> I've broken what was supposed to be one giant chapter (probably close to 40,000+ words) into three volumes. The second volume is almost done. The third is completely finished, beta'ed, and ready to go.
> 
> A huge, HUGE thanks to riverlandsred who is not only a fabulous beta, but also has contributed enormously to this story in ways you cannot imagine. Thank you, bae :)
> 
> A few of you lovely souls still have unanswered comments from the last chapter. I will definitely be replying to all your comments ASAP from last chapter. Thank you for all the support and love. I cannot tell you how much it means to me as I struggled through writing this.
> 
> In the end, I do believe love can defy death. Call me a hopeless romantic...


	19. Volume II: Iam nova progenies caelo demittitur alto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: graphic violence and language.

**Gods and Monsters**

**Chapter 18, Vol. II**

 

_ **Iam nova progenies caelo demittitur alto** _

_**(Now a new generation is let down from heaven above)** _

* * *

 

In the waiting room of Lost Valley Hospital, Bronn sat in a small, wood-framed chair. He stared out the windows, streaked with condensation. The light of north Vegas suburbia dazzled through the glass, as it filtered through the rivulets of moisture streaming down the panes. The chair’s padding was lumpy where the foam had been worn down with big asses shifting uncomfortably over the years. All that worry had left its mark in flattened cushions and disintegrating plastic upholstery.

 

Lost Valley Hospital.

 

Even in the chaotic mania of the night, Bronn had enough wits about him to make sure this was where Sandor ended up. As far back as the 1980s, the place was touted as the Moriarti hospital.

 

Mobbed up.

 

Everything from bullet holes to broken bones – they all came here. Alberto joked it was a rite of passage more symbolic than spilling blood on an Ace of Spades and watching it burn or somberly repeating vows while your brothers-to-be looked on with pride. All that didn’t mean shit until you ended up in the emergency room of Lost Valley Hospital – bleeding, broken, or dying – and your brothers in oath waiting for you because the Moriarti men took care of their own.

 

Bronn shifted in his seat on aching ass-cheeks. His heels slipped to the back of his black, tattered boots that were a half-size too big. If he’d worn thick socks, the space wouldn’t have been noticeable. He made do with what he had stuffed in his suitcase at Moriarti’s – the pompous impractically of button-down shirts, pin-stripped pants, and thinly knit dress socks.

 

A dull stabbing sensation emerged at his heel, and he remembered the faint pain from some point in the night. Only hours had passed – four, maybe five at most – since war ended with Gregor burning. The evening’s events seemed prematurely distorted by the passage of time. The details were misplaced and difficult to comprehend with any accuracy.

 

With his finger, Bronn worked to fish out the pebble lodged at the heel of his boot. Its jagged edge poked through the thin fabric of his sock, but he’d ignored the sensation earlier. The annoying jab paled in comparison to every other ache pulsing through his broken-down body.

 

If he were younger, he’d be resilient to these pains. He’d disguise them behind a tough façade and insist he could endure the requisite aches of the Moriarti life. However, no one ever spoke of the aches that came with misfortune and loss.

 

Months ago, tragedy had teemed on the far off horizon, too indiscernible and distant to pose any real threat. Everyone turned a blind eye to it, even him. When it finally came, everything broke apart along the fault lines that’d been there all along, and a different sort of agony emerged. Youth offered no antidote to it. Wisdom didn’t do shit to make sense of it.

 

After the fallout of Nestor Royce’s party, the men used to speculate about the end days. The shadows on the horizon must’ve crept under their skin and infused a pensive breed of paranoia. They all gathered around a table in Moriarti’s darkened lounge. They’d talk about it in hushed voices. Some claimed it’d be sweet and somber like a long-awaited death, the kind you see coming – a warm bed and loved ones gathered around to see you off to the other side.

 

Bronn knew they were wrong. The end would come in blood. The Moriarti craved glory too much to have it any other way. Violence and misguided honor – a warrior’s death – that’s what he envisioned.

 

And so it was – blood, but no glory and no sweetness either. Horror, heartache, and the promised tragedy. It came apart like he knew it would.

 

Outside the Severelli warehouse, a lone gun’s fire had resounded after the fighting was already done. Zulu’s screaming pierced the night with unusual wails that Bronn initially mistook for the howling of an animal. The remaining men followed the sound of Zulu’s screams and gathered around him, as he hovered over Sandor’s bloodied form.

 

Confused silence eventually gave way, and the men hollered all at once. A deafening cacophony of “How?” and “Why?” and “Who?” and pointed fingers flew in every direction to assign blame. Accusations whizzed through the thin, cold air.

 

The chaotic commentary stopped, just as suddenly as it began. The gentle gurgles and soft whimpers from Sandor’s lips were the only sound left. His fingers scraped against the dirt, and the heels of his feet dug into the ground, where he writhed against the pain. He commanded silence, even then. He was absolute in that moment. The remaining men stared with reverence, sealing their lips shut for good. Murdoch laid dead a few feet from Sandor, and the questions were answered, all but “Why?” The answer to that singular question remained universally incomprehensible.

 

Distrust ripped through the surviving men, and they broke off along the lines of allegiance. The upheaval tore them apart. Most men scattered to the four rising winds. They ran to the hills and didn’t look back, not once. Not even as Bronn screamed for help. Not as Zulu continued to wail. Not as Pete cried for the first time in all his years in the Moriarti. Not even as AWOL crumbled to his knees. The men on the hills abandoned their blood oaths. All that was the left of the Moriarti stayed behind. Those three men gathered around Bronn. When the others fled, they didn’t ask each other why or how or who. That didn’t matter. The faint smell of Gregor’s burning flesh didn’t matter. The hoards of dead scattered throughout the warehouse didn’t matter.

 

Sandor’s heart was still pumping. He was still fighting for each breath, and that meant everything. The remaining four loaded Sandor into the back of a Mercedes, and Bronn and Pete carried him away. AWOL and Zulu took up the task of salvaging what souls they could from Moriarti’s place.

 

The end came in blood, just like Bronn knew it would.

 

Blood – sickening both in sight and stench. Blood seeping into the back seat of the car, where Pete cradled Sandor in his arms. Blood slick on the steering wheel, as Bronn left the warehouse and chased after a viable cell phone signal. With mindless serendipity, he’d gone after the darkness down a road leading them to true desert – the kind that gobbled up the lights and relished a black, empty hell. Across the flat expanse of desolate earth, the small beacon of the ambulance’s lights had appeared in a far-off glimmer. Those flashing orbs of red, white, and blue long preceded the wailing sirens.

 

When the ambulance finally reached them, a pale full moon hung solemn in the sky, sweet and serene. Bronn worshipped that moon like any lunatic should. He howled beneath its grace, screaming and ranting.

 

_Rave, lunatic, rave,_ a part of him exalted – that same part buried beneath the visage of someone proud and in control. The fault lines must’ve given way then and rave he did.

 

Bronn demanded that they hurry, that they return what’d been lost: blood to Sandor’s veins and a beat to his heart. Pete looked on in a catatonic daydream, eyes drifting from Sandor to the paramedics to Bronn and back again. A pink headband flecked with blood held back the mass of dark blond curls from Pete’s face. His eyes were wide – as sad as the moon up above – but Pete did not take up the call to lunacy. He stood eerily still and tears streamed down his face.

 

One worker tried to corral Bronn with a flimsy blanket and said something about shock, how Bronn must certainly be suffering from it and a blanket would help. Bronn tore the blanket from the man’s hands and hurled it towards the ambulance, infuriated that it was still empty and Sandor was still bleeding out on a gurney. He paced, kicking up more dirt with more lunacy. The pebble must’ve found its way into his tattered boot then.

 

“Lost Valley!” hurtled from his mouth on a rasp, and his breath steamed on the cold snap of the night. The paramedics’ _danse macabre_ halted for a moment, and their hands hovered over Sandor’s bleeding body when their heads turned towards Bronn. They gawked at him, and Bronn thought it must’ve been because of his ghastly appearance. Surely, they saw the skeletal features of his face – the sunken skin beneath his eyes, the hollowed contours of his cheeks, dried lips and dead eyes – but that wasn’t why they stared.

 

Lost Valley. Mobbed up. That’s why they stared. They knew what this was about, but carted Sandor to the famed hospital anyway. Bronn and Pete followed behind the ambulance’s wailing procession. Some time had passed since they arrived here, though Bronn couldn’t speculate how long or when they’d leave. That didn’t matter either. He’d wait; for however long it’d take, he’d wait.

 

Bronn slipped his foot out of his boot and upturned it over his open palm. A pebble tumbled out, small and grey against his skin. He pinched it between his fore finger and thumb and studied its unremarkable features. He tucked it into his pant pocket with care and slipped back into his boot.

 

Glass doors separated the hospital waiting room from the lobby beyond. Both were empty now, no kindred lunatics to keep him company, except Pete who’d wandered off to haggle for more free coffee. The undertaking kept him busy, and Bronn thought it was just as well. Otherwise, Pete would again fall into the habit of reading _Good Housekeeping_ articles and giving a detailed synopsis of each one.

 

Savvy upholstering techniques had been the straw that broke the camel’s back, and Bronn lost his nerve. He’d spun around in his chair with murder in his eyes and told Pete to shut the fuck up about upholstery. Pete had slowly replaced the magazine back to the particleboard coffee table and quietly scooped up his empty Styrofoam cup. He headed through the glass doors towards the lobby and eventually disappeared around the corner.

 

The hushed murmur of _Happy Days_ played on the T.V. across the room. Bronn swiveled in his seat and studied the area around him, noticing things he hadn’t before. Everything looked either dirty or sickening here. The floors were scuffed and sticky. A fine layer of dust covered the tables along with three-month old magazines. The covers had pictures of women in bathing suits, titles boasting pool party must-haves, and all the guilty pleasures of summer gratuitously trotted out. The pages were wrinkled and torn from grubby fingers flipping through, desperate to know what sugar-laden treat would wow at the next neighborhood barbecue.

 

Across the room, two vending machines rattled periodically, and the light they put off was brighter than the fluorescent bulbs from above. Bronn pushed himself up from his seat and threw his arms over his head. His back stretched with a satisfying pop, though the aching in his joints hadn’t eased. He ambled across the room and stared into the guts of the vending machine with his forehead pressed against the glass. A package of peanut butter M&Ms dangled precariously from the metal coil. Some poor bastard didn’t get their snack, and Bronn cracked a smile at that. He shoved one hand into his pocket. Coins jangled, and his fingers swept against the jagged pebble from his shoe.

 

_I bet I could get two_ , he thought with another smile. It abruptly faded when he recalled the waves of nausea that’d been coming and going for the few hours. He was due for another episode that would send him dashing down the hall to the bathroom. On an empty stomach, his abdomen ached from all the dry heaving.

 

The automatic doors behind him opened with a mechanical whoosh, and Bronn turned towards the sound. Pete cantered through the door with one Styrofoam cup in each hand. He got two cups of coffee for free, by the looks of it, and was damn proud, if the soft grin on his lips meant anything.

 

“The coffee here is shit. Guess you gotta pay for the good stuff.” Pete offered Bronn one of the cups. The liquid sloshed against the lid when he gave it a small jiggle.

 

Bronn preferred tea, but he took the coffee and mumbled a “Thank you” anyway. The other men assumed he drank black coffee, no cream or sugar, just like any other self-respecting man would take it. Only Mirabelle knew he liked tea, so she made it for him with honey and lemon and served it with a non-judgmental smile. He loved her all the more because of it.

 

Pete lingered by the windows, one hand resting on his hip. Bronn shifted his gaze in that direction as well. Outside, palm trees lined the street. The moon loitered over the ominous silhouette of black mountains – the wild unknown of darkness. The boundaries of night crept towards the sleepless glow of Las Vegas, but those lights would blaze until dawn. What dark horrors did the city seek to stave off? The light never lasts forever. It burns out eventually, even he knew that.

 

“Any word from AWOL or Zulu?” Pete asked, lips hovering over the lid of his cup as he spoke between sips.

 

Bronn’s phone hadn’t made a sound since Pete last asked, but he pulled it from his pocket anyhow and shook his head. No new calls or text messages. The world went silent hours ago. Pete turned his expectant stare to his own phone, and a frown formed on his face.

 

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Bronn offered, a lousy reassurance and half-hearted at best. He didn’t know if they were fine. They could be dead on the side of the road, and he had no way of knowing one way or the other. He didn’t know why they weren’t answering text messages, why Alberto wasn’t picking up the phone, why some men abandoned the cause. Bronn had no answers, and uncertainty sabotaged the good will of his words.

 

Pete’s head bobbed slightly in a vacant nod. He fought hard earlier in the night and kept saying he was okay. Yet, his hands still shook, and his eyes glistened with the promise of tears, despite stray smiles.

 

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Bronn announced in a hoarse voice and set his cup on the windowsill. “Come get me if the doctor makes an appearance.”

 

“You got it,” Pete replied and slumped into a chair with another issue of _Good Housekeeping._

 

In the lobby, the nurse at reception flashed Bronn a sympathetic smile when he passed. Bronn ducked into the bathroom. He shut and locked the door behind him, but kept the lights off, preferring only the darkness for now. No one could stare at him in the dark. They couldn’t gawk at how sickly he looked or wonder why he was a mess of blood.

 

Slumped against the door, Bronn listened to the sound of his own breaths –ragged on the inhale, wheezing on the exhale. In and out, ragged and wheezing, he listened to each cycle, studying the rhythm. His palm rested against his chest to monitor the steady rise and fall. Such a small thing – breathing – and how easily taken for granted.

 

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Bronn whispered in the warmth of the bathroom.

 

The words came inadvertently. Bronn only meant to think them, but it was worth saying out loud. He hadn’t said it when he meant to, and the regret swept in quickly after the chaos settled.

 

Somewhere in the hospital, Sandor probably fought to breathe. Maybe a machine was doing it for him, pumping air into his lungs and pushing it back out. Maybe his heart was beating again. Maybe it had never stopped.  

 

Sandor had cried in Bronn’s arms and clung to him, begging for things Bronn couldn’t possibly give him.

 

“No. I don’t want this,” a deep quivering rasp sighed from Sandor’s lips on fresh blood and tears.

 

“I know, buddy. Hold on. You have to hold on.” Bronn cradled Sandor in his arms and kissed him on the forehead. He meant every last word, even the ones he had forgotten to say:

 

_It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to end like this._

 

Sweetness or blood, they deserved much more. Bad men with good hearts – that should count for something, but did God measure souls with that nuance in mind? Bronn doubted it. The darkness in the bathroom now felt depleted of warmth, and the cold crept in from somewhere he couldn’t see.

 

His arm shot towards the light switch. His fingers clawed at the mint green wallpaper, and his palm slammed against the wall until he found it. The lights flickered, and Bronn heaved. Breathing was no longer simple. Painful wheezes sounded on both the inhale and the exhale. The room spun and swayed. The walls crept closer into each other. Good god, they were pulsing.

 

Everything vertical was now horizontal. He fell hard to the floor. His cheek slammed against the ground. Something knocked him over. The walls. The walls knocked him over. They moved in on him and threw him to the ground. He crawled to the toilet. His fingernails scratched the grimy floor. He didn’t care. The walls were coming in on him. They’d crush him. He hugged the toilet bowl and closed his eyes. The few small sips of bitter coffee exploded through his lips and splashed in the water of the toilet. His abdomen burned, but the walls were closing on him. He’d die here. Why did he turn on the lights? The walls pounded and pounded again. Louder, they pounded, each bang agony to his ears.

 

“It’s Pete. Open up!”

 

Bronn opened his eyes. The mint green walls were perfectly vertical. A framed watercolor painting of a goose wearing a bonnet hung above the toilet. The goose stared at him, beak parted in laughter. Another knock resounded and Bronn could see the shadows of Pete’s feet from underneath the door.

 

“Give me a goddamn minute!” he snapped.

 

Bronn let go of the toilet and, with shaky arms, pushed himself from the floor. He gripped either side of the sink and lifted his eyes to the reflection in the mirror. The fluorescent light cast horrid shadows across his face. His cheek was red from the fall and, when he rubbed the lesion with his fingertips, the bone beneath throbbed in pain.

 

He knew he looked like shit. The mirror all but confirmed it, so he turned away and opened the door. Pete stood on the other side with his eyebrows folded together in worry. His gaze flickered to Bronn’s cheek momentarily, but he knew better than to comment on it.

 

“Dr. G is in the waiting room,” Pete informed, faintly breathless, as though he’d hustled to get here. “He’s got some news.”

 

The levity that always underscored Pete’s countenance had vanished. Somber reserve took root in the absence of soft eyes and a constant smile. Pete wasn’t smiling, and his face looked hard and worn, worried and exhausted.

 

Together, they found their way back to the waiting room where Dr. Gorski, famed physician to the Moriarti, met them. Though the doctor wasn’t particularly tall, he conducted himself with a great deal of pride, standing upright with impeccable posture that elongated a solid frame. A thick grey mustache sat beneath his bulbous nose, and his eyes glistened behind gold-rimmed glasses. He wore his grey hair parted to the side and donned a carefully pressed white lab coat with his name embroidered in thick blue letters across the breast pocket.

 

Dr. Gorski and Alberto met many years ago, around the time Alberto’s father rallied neighborhood men to his cause and formed what would become the Moriarti family. They played together as children and raised hell as teenagers before the good Polish boy went off to college and Alberto took over his father’s legacy.

 

The doctor inspired a similar breed of fear, love, and respect as Alberto. The Moriarti men trusted him with their lives, and Dr. Gorski tended to them in the organization’s bleakest hours. Tonight would be no different. If anyone on earth could save Sandor, it would be this man.

 

“Boys, come with me to my office,” Dr. Gorski’s said on a firm voice and a Polish accent. “I have news of our friend.”

 

Dr. Gorski spared no more words of greeting and, instead, turned abruptly on his heel. He walked fast towards the lobby, leaning into his pounding steps with his arms swinging by his side. Down the hall, nurses and residents stared somberly as the trio of men passed. Bronn and Pete hurried behind him into a vacant elevator.

 

The doors closed, and Dr. Gorski settled into the corner, opposite from where Pete and Bronn stood side-by-side. The polished chrome paneling to Bronn’s right bore a nebulous reflection, blurred at the edges, but distinct enough he could still see how awful he looked. At the same moment, he felt Dr. Gorski’s eyes on him, scanning up and down his form with quiet observation. The doctor’s mustache twitched as he chewed his bottom lip.

 

“You two boys are a mess, especially you,” Dr. Gorski noted. His pale blue eyes landed solely on Bronn, unwavering when he spoke again. “Do you sleep at night?”

 

The numbers displayed above the door captured Bronn’s attention and offered a reasonable excuse to avoid Dr. Gorski’s piercing stare. He watched the numbers illuminate in turn – two and then three, but not quite four. Between the third and fourth floor, he answered.

 

“No. I don’t sleep at night.”

 

Sleep was a luxury these days, one that eluded not just Bronn, but all the Moriarti men. Dr. Gorski said nothing in return, and his silence left Bronn irritated. Of all the things he needed to hear from this man, it wasn’t what he already knew – that he looked like shit.

 

The elevator doors opened, and Dr. Gorski bounded into the hall. Once more, Bronn and Pete quickened their steps to keep up. Robin’s egg blue paint covered the walls, and the floors looked clean here, reflecting the bright panel lights from the ceiling. Bronn’s stomach ached again, rumbling with god-knows-what since he hadn’t eaten in close to eight hours. He hoped he wouldn’t be sick, if nothing more than to spare himself the pain of dry heaves and a subsequent lecture from Dr. Gorski.

 

Those lectures were as famed as the doctor himself. He never sent a Moriarti man home without lecturing against their love of hard alcohol and aversion to exercise and sleep.

 

Dr. Gorski didn’t care about titles – the who’s who of the Moriarti. He treated all the men the same, sent them all on their way with a forceful pat on the back and precisely one lifesaver candy. _“Hold out your palm. Here you are,”_ he’d say before carefully placing the candy in each man’s hand.

 

Down the long corridor of the hospital, Bronn, Pete, and Dr. Gorski passed a dozen offices, some sealed shut for the night and others with physicians sifting through papers. Those doctors lifted curious stares towards the three of them, led by the oddly reticent Dr. Gorski who stopped at the last door on the left. Shoving one hand into the pocket of his khaki pants, the doctor fished out a key ring.

 

“This is my office,” he announced while unlocking the door. “You boys take a seat inside, and we’ll have a chat.”

 

The doctor opened the door to reveal darkness on the other side and hummed to himself as he flicked on the lights. The office walls were dark green on the top half. Cherry wood wainscoting covered the bottom half and extended towards the floor’s navy blue carpet tiles. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with medical tomes, binders, notebooks, and folders. Bronn shut the door and took a seat next to Pete on one side of an enormous wooden desk.

 

Bronn’s knee bobbed incessantly, and his palms were covered in a thin layer of sweat. He wiped them against the dingy fabric of his pant legs. Dr. Gorski produced a fountain pen from his pocket and pulled a blank sheet of paper from his printer.

 

“Sandor sustained four gunshot wounds.” Dr. Gorski uncapped his pen, which then glided over the paper in fluid movements. He drew the torso and head of a humanoid figure.

 

“Here and here.” He drew two small circles – one at the left mid-front of the figure and the other near the front left shoulder. “And here.” Another circle was drawn a few millimeters right from the chest’s center. “Lastly, here.” The fourth circle was directly above the right temple. Dr. G then labeled the circles with numbers in the same order as he had drawn them.

 

“Which circle – one, two, three, or four – do you think has me the most troubled?” Dr. Gorski crossed his arms over his broad chest and rocked gently forwards and backwards in his seat. The pen carefully rested between his fingers as to not dot his white lab coat with ink.

 

Pete looked at Bronn with wide-eyes and his mouth dangling open as if to speak, but he didn’t have words. Bronn leaned forward and tapped the paper at the fourth circle – the bullet that’d gone into Sandor’s head.

 

“Wrong,” Dr. Gorski insisted, and he threw his weight to the edge of his chair, his chest now pressed against the desk. “This bullet,” the doctor prodded his finger hard against the fourth circle. “This one grazed his head. Do you know why the bullet grazed his head?”

 

Bronn gnawed at the dry skin on his bottom lip, ripping at the flesh until he tasted blood on his tongue. Pete slumped further into his seat and neither of them spoke a word – too exhausted to offer any feeble speculations.

 

“He was looking at the person who shot him. Staring at that individual. Can you imagine – looking at the person who intends to kill you square in the face? It saved his life. If he had turned his head, even in the slightest, the bullet would have penetrated his skull, and he’d likely be dead.”

 

Dr. Gorski paused momentarily and sunk into the gravity of his own words, letting them wash over him as he rested back in his chair.

 

“Head wounds bleed like the dickens,” the doctor continued. “They always look worse than what they are. His head is fine. He’ll have a funny haircut while the stitches are in, but Sandor won’t care about that.”

 

Bronn heard a subtle sigh escape Pete’s lips. The abnormal cadence of his breathing abated. Bronn worked to conjure the same salient relief. Instead, his body turned all the more rigid, his back aching from sitting in yet another uncomfortable wooden chair.

 

“Circle three,” Dr. Gorski tapped at the paper. “More serious because the bullet penetrated his chest. He lost a lot of blood. As luck would have it, the bullet just missed his descending aorta. I removed it. He’s stitched up. All is well. Life goes on. The same for the circle at his shoulder. Shoulder injuries are no matter.”

 

Dr. Gorski crossed out the two corresponding circles, to which Pete leaned forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees and hands cradling his chin.

 

Something about it annoyed Bronn – how easily Pete could be moved to comfort, the infuriating myopia of his concerns, blinded to anything outside of this moment. An entire existence fell apart on this night, a microcosm snuffed out in an instant, but the world kept spinning. To anyone outside that existence, the sun set all the same and the night swelled with age-old darkness. The bitter truth revealed at an equally bitter end: no one weeps when the bad men die. A new world waited for them, empty of all privilege they’d enjoyed within the Moriarti, and Pete had no fucking clue.

 

The doctor tapped his pen at the first circle.

 

“Circle one. The critical circle, which is really at his mid-back on the right side. The bullet entered at a slight downward trajectory. That is what saved his life. It skimmed the liver as it came out. A linear, perpendicular trajectory would have severely damaged this organ, possibly irreparably. High mortality with this sort of injury. Downward trajectory and the bullet merely skimmed the organ. The bullet is out.”

 

Pete’s chair creaked when he slumped further into it and covered his face with his hands, exhaling through his fingers. Bronn couldn’t move if he tried. The cold from his toes spread up his legs and to his core.

 

“So what are you saying?” Bronn pressed. “He’ll be okay or what?”

 

“His condition is critical because of blood loss,” Dr. Gorski asserted, as if it went without saying. “He’ll survive his injuries, but the blood loss was severe. If he makes it until morning, I do believe he’ll pull through this. Recovery will be painful, but swift.”

 

Dr. Gorski recapped his pen and returned it to his front pocket. He folded the sheet of paper into fours and tossed it into the waste bin next to his desk.

 

“Go home and go to sleep,” Dr. Gorski instructed. “I will call at eleven o’clock in the late morning. If I call you before then and only before then, something inexplicable and unfortunate has happened. Otherwise, eleven o’clock.”

 

Without a famed lecture, the doctor lifted himself from his chair with surprising grace for such a stocky man. Bronn and Pete mirrored the doctor’s movements, though less gracefully on the sounds of popping joints and subtle groans from sore muscles.

 

“I do not have candies,” Dr. Gorski informed regretfully. “I have to go to the store. My wife is a curmudgeon and doesn’t buy the candies, so I have to do it myself. When you come tomorrow, I’ll give you each two candies.”

 

A boisterous laugh burst from Dr. Gorski’s lips, and one large palm slapped against Pete’s back. Pete’s lips contorted in an odd shape, a hybrid between a grimace and a smile. He spilled into the hall, and Bronn was quick on his heels. His shoulder blades throbbed, and he doubted he’d be able to grin and bear Dr. Gorski’s well-meaning, but painful gesture of endearment.

 

“I’ll meet you back downstairs in a minute,” Bronn told Pete who nodded, his face sullen and slack. Bronn watched Pete retreat down the hall. Dr. Gorski stood beneath the doorframe of his office.

 

“Hopefully, he’s not too disappointed about the absent candies.” Dr. Gorski meant it as a joke. He laughed raucously after he said it.

 

The good doctor treated them all like his grandchildren, calling them “boys” and handing out lifesavers like some fucking Polish candy man. They weren’t boys. They were men. When Bronn failed to laugh along with him, Dr. G’s lips sealed shut.

 

“Thank you, Dr. G,” Bronn quietly intoned, hands stuffed in his pockets. The pebble poked against his fingertip. “Thank you for all that you’ve done for us.”

 

“I’m just an instrument of fate, playing my part. We all are,” Dr. Gorski responded plainly. “No thanks required, but you can answer one question I have.”

 

“Sure.” Bronn shrugged, a movement that sent a shot of pain rippling across his shoulders.

 

“I’ve been seeing Moriarti men since 1981. After all the surgeries and stitches and casts and bandages, I’ve never asked questions. That’s thirty-one years of never asking questions. I never wanted to know what you men did…but I want to know now. What happened tonight, Bronn?”

 

He had never heard Dr. Gorski ask something, say something, so gently and so uncertainly. Bronn lowered his eyes to the floor. The question was loaded and complex. No simple answer would suffice. No two-sentence synopsis would capture what this meant. No one had ever tried to off a Moriarti boss before. Alberto never had any attempts on his life. His father lived to an old age. Once more, all Bronn could come up with was the one thing he hadn’t said.

 

_It wasn’t supposed to be like this._

But wasn’t it? The writing was on the wall, plain as day. Sandor read it long before anyone else did. Vinny. Marco. Falconi. Half-Stroke. A long series of betrayals preceded this night.

 

The Moriarti men who honored tradition were the most treacherous. This was mafia tradition. Mafia bosses were disposed of. Vows were set aside when they no longer served selfish purposes. Some men held this in higher regard than loyalty. They were loyal only to a vision and went to deadly lengths to see that vision realized.

 

Bronn slumped against the wall, knees suddenly throbbing and trembling slightly.

“The tattoo on Sandor’s back, you must’ve seen it. Did you recognize it?” Bronn asked.

 

“Yes. I recognized it,” Dr. Gorski nodded, though his bushy brows drew together in confusion. “The fifth circle of Dante’s Hell – wrath, vengeance, the joylessness of perpetual hatred.”

 

Years ago, Bronn had examined the swollen skin of Sandor’s back after the tattoo was finished. People were always flaunting their tattoos at him, and the expectation was always the same. He was supposed to be in awe at the skill of the artist, using muscled flesh as a canvas. The colors, the lines, the delicate stroke of a masterful hand – Bronn was supposed to sprout some meaningless drivel about how it was the best he’d ever seen, how unique the concept was, genius and _deep_. That’s what everyone wanted to hear after they threw themselves down into a chair and let some gloved sadist do their work. _Deep_. They wanted to know all the pain was worth it for the sake of meaning because God forbid anything in life lacked meaning.

 

Bronn told Sandor he hated it. He thought it was a waste of every conceivable resource that had been spent – time, money, blood, and ink. The meaning was dumb. Bronn didn’t get it. What did circles of hell have to do with anything?

 

It wasn’t the point. Bronn had missed the point entirely, only realizing this many months later. The point was they were all bad men. They were all going to hell. The circles mattered then, the shades of darkness mattered. All the despicable deeds would be racked and stacked against their souls, and they’d get their ticket to wherever they belonged. Fifth circle, sixth, seventh, so on and so forth. That’s what it was about. Soon after, Bronn had checked out a copy of Dante’s _Divine Comedy_ from the local library and tore through the pages, trying to find where he belonged, to which circle of sinners he was doomed.

 

“Do you know what the ninth circle of hell is, doc?” The question quivered from Bronn’s lips.

 

“Treachery,” Dr. Gorski whispered, and his eyes had lost their typical exuberance in favor of fear. “The most unnatural of sins, beyond repentance both in the eyes of God and man.”

 

_Precisely._

 

“That’s what happened. One of our own did this.” Bronn’s abdomen ached again. He was going to throw up with the goose watching, and maybe the walls would sink in on him again.

 

Dr. Gorski’s hands engulfed his shoulders and steadied his subtle swaying. His touch was gentle, unlike the forceful whack he’d given Pete across the back.

 

“Everything comes to an eventual end,” the doctor began in a hushed voice.

 

Bronn listened in rapt. These words meant something. He didn’t care about the man’s other lectures. Those didn’t matter, but Dr. Gorski knew more about the Moriarti than he let on. He’d lived his life parallel to Alberto’s.

 

Alberto took lives, Dr. Gorski saved them. The two men passed no judgment onto the other. Instead, they lived in flawless tandem, wholly understanding the necessity of the other side.

 

“Alberto’s legacy wasn’t meant to last forever. He handed it off before it crumbled, and I am truly sorry Sandor suffered the consequences of that.”

 

Out of wisdom and out of candy, Dr. Gorski patted Bronn lightly on the shoulder.

“Go home and get some rest.”

 

“I intend to,” Bronn muttered. He feigned a small smile, a mere curl of his lip. Dr. Gorski’s grave features softened with relief, and he returned to his office.

 

Bronn rode the elevator down to the first floor, where the halls leading to the lobby remained empty for now. He didn’t know what time it was, but could only imagine midnight had come and gone already. It didn’t matter. He preferred a transient sense of timelessness anyway – those moments when hours meant nothing and time held no meaning.

Hearing his footsteps coming towards the lobby, the reception nurse swiveled in her chair towards Bronn. She caught his attention with a small sound escaping her lips, as though she’d stumbled over her words before they even formed on her tongue.

                                                     

“Your friend went out there,” she said, finding her voice again. She pointed towards the double doors leading to the outside.

 

Bronn wordlessly nodded his thanks and followed the direction of her finger.

Outside, palm trees lined the grassy area that separated the entrance of the hospital from the parking lot. The lamp posts soaring high above illuminated the trees, and the light spilled off the leaves, casting shadows against the ground that danced with each gust of wind.

 

Pete was in a heap beneath the last palm tree in the row, the only one unburdened by the light. Bronn drew nearer, close enough to see that Pete was on his knees, face buried in his hands. The noises heaved into his palms were muffled, but distinct enough that Bronn recognized it as the sound of sobbing.

 

A ball of ember red light glided through the dark, the end of a cigarette being lifted to the lips of a silhouette housed in the shadow of the palm tree. Bronn approached the tree, and though the ground beneath his feet was solid, he wobbled on weak knees.

 

AWOL pushed himself from the tree trunk and stepped from the shadows. He was the only capo that ever intimidated Bronn, to make him question his spot as Sandor’s number two. AWOL matched Sandor in stoicism, but rallied the men with feverish, impassioned battle tales from his time in the war. Bronn didn’t have those tales. He never served as an infantryman on the front lines. He laughed when he was supposed to be stern and, lately, wallowed in sorrow when he was supposed to rise to the occasion.

 

The cherry light of AWOL’s cigarette fell to the ground and slowly faded. AWOL stared at Bronn through heavy, swollen eyes; he too had shed tears. Though he hardened again, back to stone, the fiery gaze he normally regarded Bronn with was doused with grief. He looked drained, muted in color, grey on black.

 

“What’s going on? I thought you were at Moriarti’s place.” The strength in Bronn’s voice, the strength he swore he put behind his words, fled. The question came weak, but Bronn cared little for any façade of strength. Soft, hard, funny, subdued, none of those things mattered. Pete cried on the ground, AWOL looked to be in a daze, and Bronn felt like laughing. The full moon drifted down from riding high and now settled somewhere lower in the sky – smaller and less brilliant than before.

 

“It’s gone,” AWOL exhaled and shook his head. “Everything is gone.”

_I already know._

Bronn felt that wave coming, rolling up in the still waters of an ink black sea, coming for them from far away and a long time ago, sent out one stormy night in late June. Nothing had been the same since then.

 

“What do you mean gone?” Bronn asked, if nothing more than to humor AWOL. The shadows danced again, and his efforts to figure out the phantom beat distracted him.

 

“Zulu and I didn’t even get to Moriarti’s. We picked up Sansa, Brigitta, and Nina on the way. They were the only three who made it out alive. The Severelli slaughtered the rest of them.” AWOL slumped against the tree again, Doc Marten’s planted firmly on the ground in front of him. _We’ll all fall down,_ Bronn thought. Tragedy had a way of bringing people to their knees.

 

“What about the men that were there?” Bronn managed. His throat felt dry, torn to shreds.

“Are you not fucking listening to me?” AWOL pushed himself from the tree. “They’re gone, Bronn! Alberto, Johnny, Disco, all their men, all the ones who stayed behind. They’re dead. The women who were there – gone. Falconi, Half-Stroke, they knew what was coming. For all we know, they were in on it. We were set up on both ends – the warehouse and at Moriarti’s.”

 

Bronn already knew the last bit. AWOL didn’t need to say it. By his order, Bronn refused to send men to answer Disco’s plea for back up. Now, an accusation rested heavy within AWOL’s blood-shot stare, lingering so that the hairs on Bronn’s arm stood on end, and it had little to do with the cold breeze rustling through the palm leaves.

 

“Where are the girls?” Bronn asked. AWOL stared at him still. He wanted to tell him stop. He wanted shout it at the top of his lungs for everyone to quit staring – the nurse at reception with her fat jowls and nasally voice, the goddamn goose from the bathroom, Dr. Gorski with his well-intended concern, and now AWOL.

 

“Zulu’s with them,” AWOL answered. Behind him, Pete rose to his feet and blinked away at tears clinging to his eyelashes. “We went back to Nina’s place for the night until we figure out what to do next. She lives on the other side of town. We can’t stay there for long. Few days at most.”

 

AWOL stuffed his hands in his pockets. His keys jingled, and he snorted a sardonic laugh.

 

“They looked at me like I’m the one with some sort of plan, like I know what the fuck to do. The truth is I don’t know.”

 

He looked like he was going to cry again, but lowered his gaze to the ground as the tears pearled in the corners of his eyes. _Am I supposed to cry?_

 

Numb to the pain, Bronn couldn’t conjure tears. He’d already surrendered to the despondent tranquility that came now.

 

“Pete says Dr. G told you guys to go back home, that everything will be fine with Sandor,” AWOL continued, and Pete stood by his side, solemn and silent, but now staring at Bronn and expecting some measure of grief from him. “The thing is none of us have a home.” AWOL’s voice trembled and his fingers labored to fish another cigarette from his back pocket. “We have nothing. We don’t have a goddamn thing anymore.”

 

He looked at Bronn, heartbreak heavy in his eyes and the cigarette resting between his lips.

 

“You have each other,” Bronn murmured, and this time a laugh escaped his lips. Small, but evident, and Pete looked horrified now. All that concern was rendered into utter disbelief.

 

“God, man! What the hell is wrong with you?” AWOL shouted, his fires stoked and blazing behind his eyes now. “Is that it? That’s all you have for us? All this talk of brotherhood, you know, and that didn’t stop Murdoch, did it? Didn’t stop Vinny or Marco. All those men talk about brotherhood and blood bonds and that didn’t mean shit at the end of the day, did it?”

 

“What the fuck do you want from me?” Bronn demanded. The shadows no longer swayed, and he felt more solid on his feet now than he had all night. “You want me to cry? You want me to fall apart in front of you?”

 

Bronn stepped forward, the tips of his boots a few inches from AWOL’s and his voice drawn low, backed by the intensity that’d been missing moments ago.

 

“I’ve already done that. I already fell apart,” he reminded AWOL. “This organization took everything from me. Every last thing. Order and rank means nothing. Don’t you see that? The Moriarti is done. Gone. Over. Dust. Tonight was just the nail in the coffin, and even I saw this coming. There’s no going back. There’s nothing to go back to.”

 

Eyes to the ground, AWOL puffed on his cigarette, pinching it between thumb and forefinger and watching the ash fall to the ground in thin wisps. Bronn took a step away from him, backwards down a small slope that led towards the parking lot.

 

“You want some advice?” Bronn continued. “Some parting words? Get the hell out of dodge, AWOL. That’s what you’re good at, right? Leaving it all high and dry? Take Pete with you. Take Zulu. Take the girls. Get the fuck out of here. Go before the other shoe drops.”

 

“And what about you? You’re still a part of this,” AWOL insisted. The hand holding his cigarette waved through the air as he marked his words. “We need you. We’re in it together. All of us – the girls, Zulu, Pete, me, you, Sandor. It’s us now. Not the Moriarti. We’re something else now.”

 

They were nothing now. Of all people, Bronn expected AWOL to understand this, but instead the man was wed to delusion, as much as Pete and Zulu. They were dead in the water, nowhere left to go.

 

“Something else,” Bronn repeated on a murmur, and AWOL mistook it for concurrence. Bronn retrieved the car keys from his pocket, careful not to disturb the pebble still tucked in there.

 

“Where are you going?” Pete asked urgently.

 

“I just need some time,” Bronn shrugged. He couldn’t meet Pete’s eyes and instead studied the shadows at his feet. “All of this is a lot to take in.”

 

“Bronn,” AWOL pled.

 

“What, man?” Bronn threw his arms in the air, and his keys jangled in response. “I’m tired, okay? I’m going to my place. I want to sleep in my own bed tonight. Just call me in the morning. Alright?”

 

“Alright,” AWOL nodded. “I’m calling you in the morning.” It sounded like a threat and should’ve been. AWOL probably knew. Pete too, but poor Pete, with his pink headband and sad baby blue eyes, didn’t have it in him to threaten Bronn in this moment. He just nodded his head and swallowed down any protests.

As he continued towards his car, parked haphazardly in the lot, Bronn could feel their stares following him. He didn’t turn to look because he knew damn well the danger in that. Even as he sped from the parking lot and onto the main road leading to the highway, he imagined AWOL and Pete still watched him.

 

Bronn followed the highway south, a straight-shot into the glittering heart of Las Vegas. With each mile, the distant light of the city grew more brilliant, manifesting like a past-life memory recollected – vague around the edges, but his former self recognized the colors and shapes.

 

The Moriarti owned Vegas – their city of gold, the fire of a thousand burning stars. Gold-plated nickel was more like it, though. Scratch the surface, and underneath were all the lies.

In his younger years, Bronn had schemed to master the city. Vegas chewed others up and spit them out as a mess of addictions and complexes, but not him. He’d be different, or so the story went in his head. After awhile, the city’s mystique failed to enchant him and instead deposited an emptiness that grew wild within him.

 

The Vegas Strip beamed up ahead. It glowed like a beacon that Bronn blindly followed for the sake of reminiscence and nothing more. He exited the highway and navigated towards the buildings dripping in lights. Everything here used to dazzle him, but now he looked on with a bitterness that nostalgia could do little to sweeten. That bitterness grew when Bronn turned onto the strip. Hoards of people still roamed the street, all of them with drunken smiles plastered to their faces. They poured out of one casino and into another.

 

Stopped at a red light, Bronn stared up at the pink glow of the Flamingo Hotel looming above him. Alberto loved the place. The kitschy glamour bewitched the old man and his crew – underboss, consigliere, and capos alike. Mafia men flocked here since the days of old, and Alberto always yearned to resuscitate those glory days.

 

The old man romanticized the past into an obsession with what’d once been. They were convinced greatness existed in hindsight alone; a rearview mirror of things unachievable now and too far gone to recreate. Alberto mourned the past, though he’d never admit it. Terrified of future prospects, he’d retreat to the Flamingo Hotel and pretend for a little while that the organization was just the way he’d left it. That nothing had changed.

 

The light turned green and Bronn sped past the Flamingo. He headed further into the heart of the strip where more lights devoured the night.

 

The reality was that everything changed. Bronn was an early testament to that. He came to the Moriarti like many of his contemporaries – a drifter and a dreamer, a lost soul looking for something kindred in all the wrong places. The men of the Flamingo era called him and his peers the new generation of the deluded disillusionists.

 

They didn’t favor the glamor and rejected the burdensome farce of tradition. The old men thought they rejected mafia privilege and all that comes with it: money, power, and an untouchable place in the world. The Flamingo men liked their girls and gambling. They relished a high life full of all the extravagance one would expect from a mafia family. The new generation found that dark brooding depths could thrill just as easily as bright Vegas lights.

 

Some saw the paradigm shift as a downfall, some a rebirth. Bronn and the others – Sandor, Pete, AWOL, Johnny, Disco, and so many more – came from nothing and belonged to nothing. The tie that bound them together was the refuge they sought in the Moriarti and each other. They took the organization’s legacy and molded it into something all their own. Theirs wasn’t a place of privilege passed through bloodlines of father to son to grandson. They didn’t inherit a gold-plated kingdom with grandiose visions of conjuring the glory days from the grave. Without a blood legacy to rely on, they worked for what they wanted, hustled in a whole new way.

 

Under the leadership of the new generation, the organization attracted like-minded men – boys like Zulu, not an ounce of Italian in him, a child of Mexican immigrants, a runaway who came to them with nothing to his name, hardly an identity at all. They took him in. They carved out a place for him and gave him a new name to match his new life.

 

Bronn turned down a side street away from the strip and glaring lights. At some point, it all became too much and he could only stomach it in doses. Similarly, when the lights of Vegas shone too bright, the Moriarti found their place scattered across the desert, where nights weren’t lit up like a neon dream. They became accustomed to the dark depravity and revered it with grotesque ease. They embraced the seedier aspects their golden predecessors sought to replace with Vegas vice. In the darkness they loved, they couldn’t see their own undoing emerging on the horizon.

 

Bronn sped back towards the highway, weaving into the left lane and sailing through a traffic light just as it turned red. The detour onto the Strip had served its purpose. Nothing had changed here. He should’ve guessed as much.

 

Bronn drove well beyond the city and into the valley, where the horizon opened up. When he rolled down the driver side window, the whooshing sound of cold wind drowned out the faint murmur of the radio. The silhouetted terrain rolled up from the earth in a far off mountain range. Out here, the night took thorough hold, and the roads offered more space to think.

 

In the early summer, Bronn drove these roads to chase down his thoughts, always ending up at some dusty crossroad in the desert. The asphalt would end, and a dirt path running north to south began. Pulling off the road, he’d lay on the hood of his car at dusk and puff on cigarettes, one after the next, blowing smoke to the sky. He’d watch the evening clouds amble on, colliding into one another to take on a whole new identity in different colors and shapes.

 

Those nights were bliss. Sherbet-colored sunsets melted into the purple mountain peaks of the Sierra Nevada. A gentle breeze swept up dry heat, and chirping lullabies were the swan song of each passing day that ended with Mirabelle in his arms, stargazing with wanderlust in her eyes. She kept him up those nights, talking about what it all meant: where we go after we die, who’s waiting for us on the other side, and the heavy hand of fate.

 

_“Don’t you think we were meant to find each other? Don’t you think things happen for a reason? Nothing is meaningless, can’t you see that?”_

 

Her questions scared him – not because of her own answers, he already knew what she believed in – but because he hadn’t the slightest clue what he believed. The whole universe was nonsensical, and the patterns that might point to a greater meaning continually evaded him. Bronn would only nod his head and say to Mirabelle: _“Absolutely, sweetheart. I don’t doubt it for a moment.”_

 

She’d finally go to sleep then, a smile on her lips because she took him at his word. He would lay awake, pondering why she was in his arms, not someone else’s. Luck, not destiny, brought her to him. She never made him a believer in fate, and he never told her because he sensed it would crush her fragile heart. For a time, he pretended and flashed her a knowing smile in those nights. She took it to mean that, in the wisdom of his age, he had sorted out his own personal dogma for existential musings, kept the secret safe within, and that one day he’d tell her what it all meant and light up her world with understanding.

 

He should have told he had no idea what anything meant, but the sweet sleep of summer changed one night. The wisps of clouds, all those sherbet sunsets, and what few beliefs he had were upended, as if something had listened in rapt to Mirabelle’s professions of faith and Bronn’s little white lies. Something sinister had come to replace the bliss. That ominous threat emerged in the type of darkness no one finds beauty or meaning in. Senseless darkness, that’s what it was. A relentless cruelty that knew no bounds and promised no end.

 

It started with the blistering heat that came in late June – an abrupt start to summer, hot off the heels of the solstice, which Mirabelle celebrated with flowers in her hair and Sangria staining her lips. On the last Friday of the month, the heat was supposed to break with a cold front sweeping in from the Pacific. No one understood what that meant, except Bronn and a few others who’d grown up on the plains. Cold chasing away the heat meant storms. _Big_ storms.  

 

He’d suggested to Mirabelle that they bunker down at his place. From his back patio, they could watch the clouds rolling over the mountains. They’d stock up on candles and booze, and make love all night with the walls shaking from the thunder. Mirabelle thought the idea either sounded terribly romantic or hopelessly cheesy, but she agreed anyhow and planned to come early Friday morning with enough time to beat the storm.

 

Bronn spent that Thursday planning for her arrival and tending to things he’d never bothered himself with in previous relationships. He cleaned his sheets and vacuumed the floors, selected the best wine in Mirabelle’s favorite varieties, bought her flowers, combed through his music selection for things she might like. Everything had been in perfect, seamless order. Yet, nothing was bound to stay that way, and the pivotal point came from a single phone call.

 

Bronn could’ve missed the call. He could’ve been in the shower and not heard it. It could’ve come in the hours before, when he was strolling through the grocery store. The call came in a quiet moment, while Bronn stood in the middle of his kitchen and marveled at the fortuitous turns of his life. He could’ve taken so many different avenues, but this particular path brought him to such a fruitful point, full of love he hardly deserved and a life finally worth living. Spirit soaring, he took the phone call – a decision that upended everything with profound and pointed irony.

 

“We have to go to Portland.”

 

Sandor’s voice had been a thin whisper, and something in its unceremonious urgency sent a sharp shock straight to Bronn’s core. Light chatter or a greeting hadn’t preceded the declaration. Instead, the voice’s cadence and exasperation came immediately, sounding disarmingly unnatural. A long silence followed before Sandor spoke again.

 

“Nestor Royce’s party is tomorrow. I need to be there.”

 

Confounded, Bronn pressed the phone closer against his ear, as if to urge a follow-up explanation. Not once had Sandor shown any interest in Nestor Royce’s party. When the topic was brought up at a capo meeting in mid-May, Sandor had been bored out of his mind and doodling on a notepad. Marco and Go-Go volunteered to go, if nothing more than for the free booze and catered hors d’oeuvres. _“Knock yourselves out,”_ Sandor had told them and went back to doodling a piss-poor rendition of Donald Duck.

 

The sudden change of heart left Bronn baffled and floundering on the other end of the line, clamoring for any excuse he could manifest on the spot. Sandor breathed heavy, out of breath and out of sorts.

 

“I need you with me.”

 

His insistence sounded different to Bronn’s ears – less commanding and more pleading, perhaps even gut wrenching in some anomalous way. Bronn still didn’t remember what exactly he said in response, a murmured agreement of some sort. Later, he arrived at Moriarti’s house with an ill-fitting suit shoved into his suitcase and a litany of questions buzzing through his head. Alberto pointed him in the direction of the basement, seemingly as befuddled as Bronn.

 

The basement lounge had been empty – no poker patrons, no men seeking a midafternoon pick-me-up at the bar, no enthusiastic conversations about business. Everything had been dark except the diffuse light drifting through the curtains, separating the alcove from the lounge.

 

In the sectioned off space, Sandor sat in front of the coffee table, spinning a poker chip on its side and watching it fall. The wall sconce behind him flickered intermittently. Sandor’s face remained impassable like a mask of calm reserve. Bronn knew turmoil raged beneath the facade. Vexation rolled off of Sandor and filled the alcove with an evasive tension, powerful enough that it teemed with electricity. Sandor chewed his lip and furrowed his brow before lifting his eyes to Bronn. He stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette into an ashtray on the table. Bronn could count on one hand the instances in which Sandor smoked. The rare occasions that he did usually augured some kind of trouble.

 

“We need to be there.” Sandor had lifted his drink to his lips and took a long sip, enough to nearly empty the contents. He’d settled back in the seat and looked at the glass in his hand. “Don’t ask me why because I don’t know.”

 

This was a revelation said in real time. The words came adamantly and left no place for dispute. Bronn could’ve protested and demanded a straight answer, including all the reasons why. He knew his friend well enough to recognize the sincerity. The inexplicable nature of Sandor’s sudden and unwavering certainty was genuine, and Bronn respected him enough to not force the issue.

 

Mirabelle packed sandwiches into a cooler and bid them farewell with an indistinct kind of sadness. It wasn’t disappointment. Bronn would’ve recognized that in her because she pouted in those moments. Worry looked different on her, but he hadn’t the time or the privacy to ask, so he and Sandor climbed into the car with Mirabelle and Alberto watching from the porch.

 

With no words exchanged between them, Bronn and Sandor headed north on the highway with the sun disappearing behind the western horizon. Sandor kept the windows rolled down, the whipping winds a stand-in for conversation and neither seemed to mind it much. Adrift in their respective thoughts, the drive had been surprisingly pleasant for Bronn, though he couldn’t assume as much for Sandor.

 

They stopped for the night in Redding at a hotel off the interstate. The room was nothing to write home about, but it boasted two beds and hot water – all they really needed for a few hours of sleep and a shower in the morning. Bronn dove beneath the sheets, body aching and eyes heavy from the drive. He’d tried to surrender to his fatigue, but the sound of fabric rubbing against fabric in rhythmic motions kept him awake.

 

Across the room, Sandor sat in a paisley-covered armchair. He stared at the floor with his chin tucked in his hand. His knees bobbed up and down, his pant legs whooshing against the thick upholstery of the chair. He had resumed his distant stare and anxious vexation, staring mindlessly at the thin blue carpet on the floor.

 

“Go to bed,” Bronn had told him. The sound stopped, and he promptly fell asleep, never quite knowing if Sandor slept that night. He didn’t ask come morning. Sandor looked well rested enough as they climbed into the car and agreed on where to stop for breakfast.

 

They cut across Northern California and drove up the coast into Oregon, passing through Crescent City along the way. Out west, over the glittering grey waters of the Pacific, the clouds gathered in a dark procession, the storm’s arrival a handful of hours away. The waves tumbled onto the shore with increased fervor. Eventually, the foamy crests battered the rocks where they exploded into a fine mist.

 

By the early evening, they rolled into Portland with every radio station in town broadcasting threatening weather reports that promised high winds and torrential downpours. _“Well, folks, we are in for nasty weather. Stay safe out there,”_ the velveteen voice of an overly chipper D.J. cautioned before “Bad Moon Rising” began to play. The skies had darkened by then, and thick black clouds blotted out the sun. The trees swayed with the rising wind, limb lashing against limb.

 

They stopped at a gas station in Lake Oswego to change into their suits, which had been crumpled from the drive. They emerged from the bathroom with dress shirts equally set in deep creases and suit jackets doing little to hide it. Back at the car, Sandor paused momentarily near the hood and stopped to look at the sky. Bronn saw it as perhaps one of his last opportunities at inquiry before the evening commenced.

 

“What’s this all about? Be straight with me.”

 

Sandor quietly considered Bronn’s question and perched against the hood of the car with his arms crossed over his chest. His hair cascaded around his downturned face and lifted with each gust of wind.

 

“When we left yesterday, I told myself that this was about Ned Stark – about getting a read on him, trying to discern what his calculus is these days – but this isn’t about Ned.” Sandor paused before pushing his sunglasses onto his head.

 

“I stayed up last night trying to figure it out, why I felt the need to come here. I didn’t come up with any answers. Only more questions.”

 

Sandor stood up from the hood then. Lightning spindled through the clouds in a sudden luminescent burst. Many moments later, thunder sounded from far in the distance. Bronn realized then that they weren’t so different, him and Sandor. They could stay awake all night in tedious contemplation, asking what it all meant, but neither had ever divined any answers from the universe.

 

“Who knows? Maybe it’s just fate,” Bronn offered up jokingly, a jab at Mirabelle’s expense because he felt sure she had the same conversations about fate with her brother too.

 

“I think you might be right.” Sandor’s sunglasses dropped down in front of his eyes, and Bronn couldn’t discern if he was serious or merely continuing the humor.

 

In a strange manifestation of their jest, the night took on a fated quality as soon as they reached Nestor’s place. Every conversation seemed deliberate. The movement of the partygoers in and out of rooms looked something like the positioning of chess pieces. Bronn spent most of the party mindlessly musing over the instincts that prompted people to be in a certain place at a particular time. Was it of their own volition, or did something greater force its hand?

 

Hours into the affair, Ned Stark was a no-show. Sandor was ready to leave, but the storm had arrived. Nestor Royce’s guests were forced inside, all crowding into the great room or foyer to escape the rain. Just as the space grew uncomfortably crowded, Bronn, Sandor, Marco, and Go-Go retreated upstairs to handle a business matter that arose rather suddenly. No more than fifteen minutes later, Gregor’s men invaded the party, guns drawn and all of Nestor’s important guests entirely at their mercy. Flames erupted within the mansion, and blood slicked the floors. Gunfire echoed in a ghastly cacophony mingled amongst screams.

 

Bronn and Sandor fled. The storm had come in full force by then in blinding rain and merciless wind. It lashed at them as they sprinted towards the car and barreled from the neighborhood. Heading towards the highway, they passed emergency vehicles hurtling in the opposite direction.

 

A state of adrenaline-fueled frenzy consumed them even well outside of Portland. With wet tendrils of black hair dampening the front of his white shirt, Sandor sped down the highway, weaving between lanes and muttering to himself under his breath. He eventually calmed enough to call Mirabelle, and Bronn could hear her shouting from the other end that she _knew_ they shouldn’t have gone to Portland. She cried and bellowed, ranted and raged. Sandor said nothing in return, only a quiet apology and a murmured reassurance before hanging up the call.

 

They drove for endless hours. Rain poured from the skies – black as it doused the windshield and black soaking into the earth. Well into Northern California, Sandor faintly trembled despite the car’s humid warmth. The bleeding at his back had stopped, and his undershirt bore a large, brown-red stain where the blood had dried.

 

A boy had done that, Sandor explained to Bronn. He was just a kid, younger than Zulu even, and he’d gotten away with the Stark girl. In that moment, their manic flight from Portland suddenly existed within a framework much larger than Gregor or any Moriarti-Severelli beef. It was about the girl, Bronn knew then. At the party, Bronn recognized the stunning redhead well before Sandor leaned in to ask who she was, apparently not sharing in the recognition.

 

No older than ten, Sansa had been a little girl when Bronn cased her for leverage against Ned Stark. Sandor had only been a made man for a few years, but was put to the task of helping Bronn do what he could to rattle Ned Stark’s cage. Alberto had put a stop to it. Involving children was beyond the pale, even for them.

 

At the party, Bronn initially mistook Sandor’s interest in Sansa as guilt – a way of righting the potential wrong they might’ve done to her as a child. Even he knew that wasn’t the correct sentiment. Something else – something nameless – existed between Sandor and Sansa, despite the separation between them and the mere glances from across the room. Bronn watched a different manner of recognition develop, palpable and potent, enough that Bronn felt like an invasive presence to whatever flowed between the two of them.

 

During their drive, Sandor called in the order for Sansa’s pursuit. Leon was contacted and men from Vinny’s crew were sent to aid in the undertaking. The order left a sour feeling at the pit of Bronn’s stomach. He knew better than to oppose and understood as clearly as Sandor what would happen to the Stark girl if Gregor got ahold of her.

 

News of what happened traveled like wildfire through the Moriarti ranks. Bronn’s phone exploded that night with calls and text messages. Capos wanting to know if the rumors were true – the Severelli attack at Nestor Royce’s and the order coming down the ranks to find Ned Stark’s daughter. Eventually, Bronn shut off his phone. Alberto knew the full story and could disseminate information to the capos. Bronn didn’t need to be bothered with it.

 

Silence followed, but without the serenity Bronn had hoped. The rain had stopped by then. The wipers squeaked when they intermittently ran across the windshield.

 

“I can’t stop what’s coming for us,” Sandor had warned suddenly. “I don’t think any of us can.”

 

Bronn’s tolerance for vague prophecy had been obliterated. He didn’t have the stomach for it anymore, but didn’t quite have the heart to direct any of his frustration, fear, or anger towards Sandor.

 

“What are we supposed to do then?” Bronn asked instead, taming the tone of his voice. His question was meant to fill the silence and placate Sandor’s newfound penchant for portent.

 

When Sandor turned towards him, Bronn expected to see the familiar uncertainty. Calmly, though his eyes burned with intensity, Sandor gave his answer, entirely assured in all its implications now.

 

“See it through. We have to see this through.”

 

In the months to come, those words were never far from Bronn’s mind. He toiled over them. They somehow reached to the core of his being and held fast with a steady grip. Bronn never asked to what end they would see things through. It seemed a futile question. The vows he and Sandor took as made men only mentioned one ending – death. There were no other alternatives or ways out. Yet, Sandor knew all along something else was on the horizon. The darkness was coming, but a new alternative came along with it.

 

Sandor must’ve known then he’d have to usher the Moriarti to its grave. From the ashes of the organization, he’d forge the new alternative – a life unburdened from violence and death. The “we” Sandor spoke of wasn’t the Moriarti. It was the two of them. Together, they would see it through to whatever end necessary.

 

Sandor went to war with the knowledge that the Moriarti likely wouldn’t survive. They’d break apart, just as they were always meant to. Nothing could last forever, not even Alberto’s gold plated paradise. Seeing it through meant losing everything in the process, stripped bare of the ones they loved. His new alternative came at an awfully high price. In the end, their vows proved more than just words, but rather a crafting of fate. They’d promised themselves to the darkness and depravity, bound to it until death came and took them to their proper place in hell.

 

Sandor foresaw it all, Bronn realized now. In the quiet hours after the storm rushed through Portland, Sandor understood what they were embarking on and that death would be the price to pay.

 

Bronn leaned forward, chest pressed against the steering wheel, and he looked to the sky. The stars faded as he neared suburbia, one by one blotted out. He wondered then if Sandor foresaw his own death, if he felt it haunting him the way Mirabelle did. Bronn doubted it.

 

Earlier in the evening, Sandor cried in his arms. Pale red tears soaked his cheeks. It was the third time Bronn had ever seen him cry and the second time someone would die in his arms.

 

The first had been Alonzo. Bronn felt Alonzo’s heart stop miles from the hospital and acted surprised when the staff declared the old man dead on arrival.

 

In grief, Bronn tended to his heartache with thoughts of the good life the old man had lived: years of chasing tail in Sicily; French Riviera trysts with long-legged models; running in New York’s glittering socialite circles before building a west coast empire with Alberto’s father. Alonzo married the love of his life, watched his children grow, and bounced all five of his grandchildren on his knee. In Bronn’s arms, the old man softly closed his eyes with a delicate smile on his thin lips, leaving Bronn to speculate on which memory the old man departed. There were so many to choose from, all equally vivid, lush, and warm.

No such comforts existed for Sandor. Bronn had pressed his hands against his friend’s chest and felt the fading heartbeats thrum against his palms. Blood seeped through his fingers. Bronn scooped Sandor up in his arms, and Sandor cried. All Bronn knew to do was to hold him, to tell him how sorry he was that this was happening, how he wished it could be him instead.

 

The one thing he had forgotten to say: it wasn’t supposed to be like this. There was supposed to be so much more. They were supposed to see this all through to a different end.

 

Sandor would have loved Sansa to the end of their days and well beyond. Bronn hoped liked hell she knew. Sandor would have cherished the children they’d have raised together. Years would pass. Sandor would have been in raptures over his luck. He’d know more love than he ever thought he deserved. More years would pass, years full of laughter and joy and some hardship too because life is never sweet without the sorrow. He would have endured against time until he took his final breath as an old man. He would have closed his eyes softly with a delicate smile on his lips at a life well lived.

 

Sandor knew the life he was meant to live better than Bronn ever would. The thoughts of that life weren’t memories. They were his future, his right, and death would rob him of all the beautiful things he was meant to have; all the vivid, lush, and warm memories he deserved – the years of happiness and hardship, the sweetness and the sorrow, the joy of family, the love of his life. Death would take all of it from him. Weak though he was, Sandor railed against it. His trembling fingers coiled weakly around Bronn’s arm, and he stared pleadingly. He had begged then, as if Bronn could play god and gift him with life.

 

Death’s currency was strange. It dictated that a man who coveted the end so thoroughly could not exchange his life for someone like Sandor who wanted nothing more than to live. Bronn considered a cruel demonstration of the universe’s senselessness. He could believe in fate, but that hardly meant he believed the world was good or just.

 

_I guess it all works out in the end,_ Bronn mused and navigated the turns of his neighborhood.

 

He parked in his neighbor's driveway, only because he knew it would piss the old woman off. Come morning, she'd peer out her window, see his car, and come banging on his door in her bathrobe and slippers. Bronn chuckled softly at the thought. He flipped open the glove box and pulled out his pistol.

The stairs leading up to his townhouse were agony on his legs, which were sore and stiff from the drive and the chaos of the evening. His body felt like hell, throbbing in some places, numb and tingling in others, and a pressure on his temples that felt as though his head was going to explode. He took each step slower than the one before and gripped the wrought iron railing, the metal cold against his palm.

When he reached the door – painted a glossy black with a brushed brass knocker set pleasingly in the middle – Bronn fished his key ring out of his pocket. He twisted the metal deftly between his fingers and removed the key to his townhouse before unlocking the door.

 

It’d been months since he’d been back here. When war with the Severelli became an increasingly emergent threat, he’d gone to the mattresses with all the others. Bronn had slept in Mirabelle’s room. Agonizing though it had been, sleeping alone in his own bed had seemed an even bleaker prospect.

Inside, the door shut with a thud behind him, and he pressed his back against it. A clock on the wall directly in front of him ticked so soft he strained to listen over the whooshing of highway traffic somewhere outside. The hands of the clock moved in steady, triumphant rhythm. He nodded gently with each tick until the sound became louder, singular in his mind, and he couldn't imagine not hearing it.

An entrance table sat beneath the clock, boasting a lamp and a few other small trinkets Mirabelle had put there, notably the only picture of them known to exist. She posed behind him in the photo, which was taken on New Years Eve. Her arms were draped around his neck, her lips pressed against his cheek, and, on his part, he wore a drunken smile and half open eyes as he clutched her wrist with some ridiculous hat on his head.  

 

On the outside, Mirabelle was every bit a Clegane. She endured her battles with grace and rendered herself unaffected by the hardships she encountered. Though she was quick to laugh, there was always a touch of tragedy to Mirabelle, and she must have known it too. If others stared too long or pried too hard, she’d turn to stone and call upon her anger to protect her vulnerabilities. Otherwise, she could be counted upon for endless wit and charm, which captivated those lucky enough to call her a friend.

 

In some silly bout of insecurity, she’d tried to enrapture Bronn with all of this, but it wasn’t her vivaciousness that intrigued him. He’d found himself immediately fascinated by the hidden sadness that inevitably infiltrated everything she did – every smile she gave, every laugh that burst through her lips, and the endless warmth that encapsulated her. The woman he’d only fleetingly see was the one he’d fallen in love with.

 

In his arms, she’d finally given up the ghost. Mirabelle unraveled into gentleness and uncertainty at his touch. For all her outward resilience, the tenderness underneath and the overwhelming desire to be loved and cared for was what he remembered. He remembered the sadness too – all the ways he tried to fix it, and all the ways he would have given her the love she deserved if only there had been more time.

Bronn snatched up the picture frame and headed for the kitchen. In his absence, the kitchen table had gathered a layer of dust that accumulated evenly across the wood grain. Bronn set the picture frame down in front of the chair at the head of the table and placed the pistol next to it.

 

He traipsed the tips of his fingers through the dust, watching the patterns he created. Beyond the table, a sliding glass door led to the patio outside. The moonlight streamed through the pergola hanging above, casting a pattern of crisscrossed lines about the concrete slab. It was October now, and the desert had a strange love affair with the cold. The dusty earth was always painted in dull greys, the ground lifeless. The clouds rolled in, and the moonlight filtered through in a dampened glow.

 

Bronn sat at the head of the table and dug into each of his pockets. The contents – his keys, wallet, and phone – were dumped next to the picture frame. In his pocket, Bronn’s finger swept against the pointy edge of the pebble. He pulled it free and, in the dull light spilling into the room, noticed how unremarkable it was – a mere speck of the earth and nothing more. He let it tumble in his palm, following the lines. His finger rolled it in a circle. After a few moments, he plucked the pebble from his palm and tossed it to his right. It landed somewhere in the kitchen, bouncing against the tiled floor.

A sort of calm came over him then. Exquisite and painless, he sunk further into the feeling. It left him delirious, but freed from corporal reservations and any inclination towards preservation. Those things simply melted away. _No more,_ he thought in euphoric exaltation.

He shifted his head back until the nape of his neck met the top edge of the chair. A crack along the ceiling caught his attention, and he studied the way it zigzagged towards the furthest wall. His fingers brushed against the table, groping for his gun until they met the metallic cold surface. He positioned the handle in his palm and gripped it. With the pistol steady in his hands, Bronn pointed the barrel towards the crack.

 

“Am I sorry for the things I’ve done?” he spoke out loud, soft at first. He closed his eyes and let the gun lay in his lap. He envisioned Alberto sitting across the table from him, his aged brow creased in worry or perhaps deep in thought. Bronn catalogued the truly horrific acts he’d committed over the years – countless murders and acts of torture. Many were rather brutal. He’d once killed a woman who he later learned was with child.

 

_Am I sorry?_

 

“Not really. I guess that makes me a bad man. This was the way it had to be, right, old man? That whole thing about give and take, reaping what you sow…”

 

Bronn opened his eyes again and glanced at the crack in the ceiling. The more he stared, the more obvious the line became. It grew into a chasm, both sides divided by darkness. He squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, the chasm remained, a dark and ceaseless shadow dispersing along the wall now.

 

“Yeah, I guess I believe it. Fuck. No one deserves this more than me.”

 

The words would chase away a growing fear. Wasn’t that the way of it? Bronn always seemed to feign his strength, and the courage he claimed wasn’t of his own making. He found it in the unlikeliest of places, in a woman fragile enough that he saw her as something of a child at times. Bronn tore his eyes away from the shadow at the ceiling and looked at Mirabelle sitting on the table. She smiled like always, but the sadness didn’t exist as he remembered it.

 

“All you wanted was for someone to take you away,” a whisper hissed from his dried lips. “Your brother sure as hell wasn’t going to do that, you knew. You used to ask me to get you out. Give you a decent life.”

 

Bronn laughed heartlessly and knocked his head further back. The wooden edge of the chair rested painfully at the back of his neck.

 

“Remember what I said? ‘Tomorrow.’ It was always about kicking the can down the road. My entire life has been about that – a series of tomorrows. Nothing is important. Leave it for tomorrow. Remember the last thing I said to you? ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ You were the one good thing, and all I ever gave you was ‘tomorrow.’”

 

The day Bronn said goodbye to her, he’d been overcome with a suspicion that he was standing at a crossroads, the place where dust and asphalt meet. All that time, he thought Mirabelle was standing right there with him, their destinies intermingled. He hadn’t considered, not once, that their paths might diverge. He’d head north, she’d head south, and they’d never see one another again.

 

“What fucking irony,” he murmured. His throat burned, and the back of his neck ached. He thought maybe he could cry in this moment, but that’d already been done to death. _I’m bled dry,_ Bronn mused. In the absence of profound grief, he’d hoped to encounter some measure of peace, but, true to the name, emptiness was a void, not an escape.

 

“I’m done.”

 

_We have to see this through._

If he thought about it – the mess or the pain – he wouldn't do it. The darkness came on a storm and would end with sweet sleep. Bronn closed his eyes and conjured all the memories of summertime – those nights of bliss and warmth, love and formless clouds careening across the red and gold sky; a smattering of stars strewn amongst the blanket of twilight and Mirabelle gazing up above, somehow making sense of it all; the fire and light, an end to darkness and sacrificial loss. _“Lie down. Be still. You’ll see it too,”_ she’d say, pointing out the constellations, and he’d followed her finger tracing across the heavens.

 

“Lie down. Be still,” he whispered. “I’ll be right there, doll. No more tomorrows.”

Bronn gripped the pistol in his hand and brought it to his mouth. His lips wrapped around the cold metal barrel, tongue pressed against the end. One deep breath in and a languished sigh out, he pulled the trigger.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone! 
> 
> Admittedly, I struggled very hard with this chapter. I rewrote it more times than I care to admit. It was just difficult, from beginning to end. An ENORMOUS thanks to my bae and beta (or baeta) riverlandsred for her amazing skill, patience, and the work she put into this. It would’ve been a mess without her. 
> 
> So here’s the deal: Vol III of this little interlude is done, beta’ed, waiting in a folder ready to go. I’ll update again probably sometime this week. 
> 
> I’m happy to say the end is FINALLY in sight for this story. I’m guessing another 10-12 chapters that’ll be one POV, maybe two each. I’m looking to finish this story in 2016, or spring 2017 at the very latest. I think there will be enough momentum in the narrative now that things will hopefully move quickly and I can finish this off. 
> 
> To those who’ve stuck with me since the very beginning - thank you. I realize how hard it is to hang on with a story that’s been years in the making now. If I could write this faster, I would. I can’t, so your patience really does astound and flatter me. 
> 
> To new readers who power through this thing in a matter of days and still hang on for updates - thank you for jumping on board and being incredibly supportive and sweet. 
> 
> To anyone and everyone in between, thank you for everything - for reading, commenting, giving kudos, recommending. All of it. It keeps me going because sometimes it’s hard to maintain momentum on a fic that was started almost three years ago. 
> 
> To ease some aching hearts, this is sort of the darkest before dawn chapter...the rock bottom, which is why it probably took so long to write. Just keep hanging in there :)


	20. Volume III: A fronte praceipitium a tergo lupi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence (no actual violence, just descriptions), language

**Gods and Monsters**

**Chapter 18, Vol. III**

 

_ ****_A fronte praceipitium a tergo lupi_ ** ** _

_**(A precipice in front, wolves behind)** _

* * *

At four in the morning, the phone next to Ned’s bed blared with shrill insistence. He’d drifted off to sleep with _The Twilight Zone_ on the TV and dreamed of low-fi alien invasions. Instead of blasting otherworldly creatures with laser beams in the dream, a garish ringing sounded from his gun. Even the aliens covered their pointy little ears and stared at Ned with confusion clouding their big buggy eyes.

 

On the fifth ring, Ned jolted awake. His limbs flailed, and his body catapulted up from beneath the sheets. The polychrome lights of the Vegas strip filtered through the window’s gauzy drapes as he fumbled for the phone. The receiver met Ned’s face harder than he intended and, through wincing pain, he grunted a “hello”.

 

FBI Special Agent Kingsley Bright was on the other end of the line, hollering with enough vigor to suggest he’d been awake for some time already.

 

“Shit went down last night, Ned. Meet me in the lobby in an hour.”

 

With no further explanation, Kingsley’s phone crashed into its cradle, and the line went dead. Ned sunk back into the mattress, his head cradled in a soft stack of down-feather pillows.

 

_Sansa. They found her. Or maybe they didn’t. Or worse, they found her dead._

Ned had dwelled on the possibilities for months now. Time never presented any new prospects. Instead, it only exacerbated his growing frustrations. Those frustrations turned to horror when he heard that Myranda Royce’s body had been fetched from the Colorado River a few nights ago. He’d known her since she was a precocious and outspoken little girl, so different from Sansa and yet the two were inseparable. They’d even gone missing on the same night, and though he grieved for Myranda, Ned’s fear rested on the possibility that Sansa would meet a similar end. He cursed Nestor Royce’s willful extravagance that led to this entire mess.

 

When he received the invitation to Nestor’s annual party in the mail, Ned had buried it in the trash beneath coffee grounds and an old issue of _Newsweek_. Inexplicable instincts prompted his actions, and the following days were wrought with an unshakable sense of unease.

 _"Why can't we just rent a movie and order in something for dinner?"_ Ned whined to Cat the day of Nestor’s soiree. She'd gone quiet, and her lips had sealed together in a frown; the suggestion denied and the topic non-negotiable. 

Ned thought to make the same suggestion to Sansa and to sweeten the pot by throwing in a trip to her favorite frozen yogurt joint. Before the party, though, she came to his office wearing a beaming smile and an outfit he'd never seen before and immediately objected. The white dress was shorter than anything he would normally let her wear. The straps were too thin, the cut too low, and her heels too high. With shoulders thrown back in confidence and pride at the woman she was becoming, Sansa gently pled her case. Her words, soft as to let him down gently, were some of the last Ned heard her say.

_"I'm not a little girl anymore."_

He had already known this, of course, but never heard Sansa say it so directly. She wasn’t asking his permission to grow up. She was urging him to accept that she already had, whether he liked it or not. Ned hadn't bothered to suggest a night at home with take-out and frozen yogurt. She wouldn't have taken him up on it, and her guilt at turning down her poor old dad would have spoiled her evening. He made up an excuse about having work to do and told Sansa to have fun at the party. Now, months later, he still regretted it – his reticence, his fear of pushing her away, and his decision to let his baby girl grow up one night too soon. 

Ned kicked his legs free of the sheets and sat up on the edge of the bed. He could easily crumble beneath the steady lashing of regret, fear, and frustration, but there was work to be done, and Ned always pulled himself together to brave another day. He was a rock, steady and calm, resilient no matter how the forces of the Universe seemed to work against him. After his brother Brandon’s untimely death, Ned tamed his profound grief and took the helm of the Moriarti case. He did the same when Sansa went missing – neatly tucking away all the worry and anguish. His friends, who had come in droves to Portland, marveled at this. _"You're handling this better than any one else would in your situation,"_ more than a few of them said.  

Meant as a compliment, it instead made him angry. In the observation, he saw an insult, a passive-aggressive slight against him, an insinuation that he just didn’t give a fuck. _Not Ned the rock. Ned the rock is immovable and unbreakable, steady and calm, unaffected and – unlike so many others – able to carry on._

His friends didn't know him. None of them knew him anymore. They didn't know that he had waited up at the kitchen table so many long nights for his little girl to come home. He never told them about this. Nor did he tell them that he had fallen to his knees, a complete wreck, in the middle of Sansa’s bedroom floor the day he realized she wasn’t coming home. He never told anyone that Ned the Rock had begun to fissure against the grief.

Ned retreated from bed and moved towards the bathroom. His morning routine commenced, but his motions were clumsy. His toothbrush slipped from his hands – not once, but twice – both times upending globs of toothpaste onto the bathroom counter. He willed his hands to stop trembling long enough that he trimmed his beard. His fingers struggled with the buttons of his dress shirt and awkwardly managed a half-windsor knot on his tie.

 

The suit jacket he selected from the closet was finely tailored and handsomely adorned with gold cuff links. His pants were pressed with a pristine crease running down the center of each leg. His briefcase was packed with papers in orderly stacks.

Once he’d put himself together in less than an hour’s time, Ned walked to the window of his hotel room and drew back the curtains. From the twelfth floor, he could see the Vegas strip dotted with glittering lights and extending in either direction as far as his eyes could see. By night, the city dazzled. Its effervescent splendor drew hoards of people, who flocked the streets with childlike wonder. Everything – food, alcohol, and entertainment – was indulged in gluttonous excess here. The appeal was superficial, though, and soon the sun would rise on a city of shams. Beneath the surface, it was ugly and dirty, cruel and rotten at the core.

 

Weeks ago, Ned had laughed when Kingsley Bright suggested they set up a mobile operations center at the Flamingo Hotel. He could understand how centralizing their effort in Las Vegas was beneficial. Yet, Ned couldn’t get past the irony. Of all the places in Vegas, the Flamingo Hotel had some of the most storied mob ties, both past and present. Mafia legends haunted every corner of the city, but the Flamingo’s history was steeped in blood and misfortune.

 

“You’ve got to be kidding me, right?” Ned had chuckled when Kingsley suggested the Flamingo as their temporary base. “That’s Bugsy Siegel’s hotel and one of the reasons why his own men murdered him.”

 

Bugsy and his Murder Inc. cohorts birthed the American mafia. They envisioned themselves as gods of the world they created. They were human, though, and suffered from the same desires as everyone else, but to a larger extent perhaps. For Bugsy, greed did him in. He’d skimmed money off of his men’s investments in his fledgling hotel. At a meeting in Havana, Lucky Luciano and others finalized a contract on Bugsy’s life. Months later, he was shot dead while reading a newspaper in his girlfriend’s living room.

 

Ned had always found it a bit morbid that Alberto Moriarti favored the Flamingo during his visits to Las Vegas. The hotel was cursed, some said. Others claimed that Bugsy himself haunted the halls as a kind of purgatory, stuck in the place that had caused him so much strife throughout his time in Vegas. Nevertheless, lavish suites and blackjack tables were reserved exclusively for Mr. Moriarti and his guests when they stayed at the Flamingo. No expense was spared, no request denied – the whims of the Moriarti men were endlessly catered to.

 

Alberto Moriarti had stopped coming to Vegas years ago, and Ned never did find out why. The parties, the meetings over imported cigars and expensive liquors, the dinners held in his honor – they all came to an abrupt and unceremonious end. Like the hotel, perhaps Moriarti was a haunted man. Too many lives were carelessly changed all because he willed it.

_And all those ghosts finally caught up to him_.

 

On that solemn thought, Ned’s hands curled around the curtain’s delicate fabric and he drew them shut with one hard yank. He scooped up his briefcase on the way out the door and headed down the hall.

Inside the elevator, he punched the button for the lobby and rested with his back against the wall. The elevator jostled slightly as it came to a stop, and in the handful of moments before the doors opened, Ned drew himself to full height and smoothed down the front of his suit jacket.

 

When the doors opened, he strode off the elevator and into the lobby. His footfalls echoed through the expansive space, pounding hard against the polished marble floors. The front desk staff stared curiously at him as he marched past.

 

Kingsley was waiting for Ned at the other end of the lobby. With a leather-bound binder tucked beneath his arm, Kingsley’s thumb swiped at furious speed over the screen of his phone. He muttered to himself, dictating whatever message he was drafting.

 

“Good morning,” he greeted distractedly when Ned approached. The rest of his words were quiet mumbles amongst the frantic taps of the screen. “Goddamn son of a bitch. Not you, Ned.” Kingsley motioned his head towards his phone. “ _This_ honky tonk motherfucker.”

 

“Schroeder, I take it?” A hearty chuckle escaped Ned’s lips. Kingsley was blunt and, although vulgar at times, Ned had developed a fondness for the man’s dry and unapologetic humor.

 

“You guessed it. The asshole thinks he’s Wyatt Earp or some shit.”

 

Malcolm Schroeder was an investigator with the Las Vegas police department who Ned had met through Kingsley. Schroeder had a bizarre fixation with the old Wild West. In his office, pictures of Wyatt Earp and Doc Holiday adorned the wall behind his oversized mahogany desk. Though he grew up in South Dakota, Schroeder spoke in a peculiar slow drawl and favored exorbitantly expensive cowboy hats. His sidearm was always displayed in a decorative leather holster hung proudly at his hip.  

 

Kingsley tucked his phone into his back pocket and smiled dully at Ned. Behind the black-rimmed glasses Kingsley wore, Ned could see that his eyes were faintly bloodshot and heavy circles rested underneath.

 

“Want to tell me what happened last night? ‘Shit went down’ isn’t very helpful,” Ned cajoled, though he sensed the answer wasn’t so simple. If it were simple, Kingsley would’ve explained over the phone. The man wasn’t one for withholding information only to dramatically reveal it later on. Kingsley looked poised to answer now, though. He drew in a breath – one meant to propel the words from his lips – but stopped short and glanced at the hotel staff behind the front desk.

 

“I’ll tell you in the car. We’re going on a road trip.”

 

Kingsley’s hand disappeared into his pocket before pulling his car keys free. He turned around and walked towards the doors in quick strides.

 

“Where?”

 

Ned’s question resounded forcefully throughout the lobby, but he hadn’t moved to follow after Kingsley. His briefcase felt heavy in his hand now, weighed down with papers and the pistol he kept inside.

 

Kingsley stopped at the sound of Ned’s voice. Though he hadn’t gone far, he spun slowly on his heel and retreated back towards Ned.

 

“Moriarti’s place,” Kingsley whispered and cast Ned a pointed look. The glasses had fallen halfway down his nose.

 

Though they stood a foot or less apart, Ned closed the gap between them. The extravagant space surrounding them – immaculate marble floors, stunning chandeliers, and the exceptionally polite concierge staff – suddenly felt hostile.

 

“What happened?” Ned demanded. When Kingsley didn’t immediately answer, Ned gripped his arm. “You know what I’m asking you. If something happened to Sansa–”

 

Ned’s voice wavered on the precipice of an echo. It swelled in an adamant, inadvertent crescendo until Kingsley interjected.

 

“No,” Kingsley pulled his arm from Ned’s grip and appeared mildly agitated. “I know what you’re thinking, but quit while you’re ahead, okay? That’s not what happened. Now, we need to get on the road.”

 

Kingsley’s eyes bored into Ned’s, and his mouth had contorted into a grimace. Though he’d known Kingsley for only a few months, Ned counted the man as a friend and knew Kingsley never offered false reassurances. He didn’t slather his words in sugarcoated niceties before speaking. He said what he meant to say, nothing more and nothing less. Ned acquiesced with a nod, and the two men crossed the lobby toward the front doors.

 

Ned first met with Kingsley in late June. An old law school buddy facilitated the meeting, and Ned counted it as a favor to his friend. Kingsley was an FBI investigator with questions about a new case he was handling, and Ned’s name was dropped as the man who would have the answers.

 

During his tenure as district attorney, Ned had encountered a wide variety of FBI agents. Some were stuffy and difficult to communicate with. They played their cards close to the chest and vigilantly safeguarded the ins-and-outs of their investigations. Others had an agenda. They’d wine and dine Ned, buttering him up in hopes that he might ease along judicial proceedings. Regardless, most left a sour taste in his mouth, and Ned counted his dealings with federal investigators as an often-unfortunate necessity in his line of work.

 

Despite his initial reservations, Ned met Kingsley at a hole-in-the-wall sports bar in Portland. The sun pounded down on him as he walked the three blocks from the only parking he could find. Sweating to death in his suit, Ned reached the bar in a profoundly foul mood. He found Kingsley in the back, hollering at the Dodgers game on T.V. with a half-eaten chicken wing in one hand and a beer in the other. Ned approached the table – disheveled, sweaty, and sporting an irritated frown – but Kingsley leapt from his seat and enthusiastically greeted Ned with a firm handshake.

 

The conversation between them proceeded effortlessly and lacked the awkwardness of a first meeting. Over beer and hot wings, the two men talked at great length about their interests, family lives, and, eventually, the reason for their meeting.

 

For years, Kingsley had worked undercover as Damian Johnson – a disenchanted and misguided police officer, who fraternized with street gangs like the Blood Kings. Kingsley had patiently cultivated his connections with the gang and played the part of “Damian” well enough to gain their trust.

 

A year and a half ago, the Vegas Blood Kings resisted Moriarti expansion into their territory. To the Moriarti, gentrifying poor neighborhoods served the dual purpose of forcing out the lesser street gangs and diversifying their business fronts beyond high-end gambling establishments.

 

When the Blood Kings sought to confront the Moriarti with a fight, Kingsley jumped on the opportunity to establish mafia connections. He volunteered himself as a liaison between the organizations and spared the Blood Kings from a losing battle. Kingsley met with Bronn the underboss of the Moriarti and arranged for the Blood Kings to be paid out of their territory. In the time since, Kingsley had maintained a friendly connection with Bronn and touched base periodically to keep the Moriarti within arm’s reach.

 

In recent years, the Blood Kings’ numbers had greatly diminished through incarceration and gang wars, and they had more or less disbanded in major cities. With a reorganization of his home unit, Kingsley was promoted as a lead investigator on a task force focusing on west coast mafia families, including the Moriarti.

 

Kingsley had been two weeks into his new position when the Royce massacre occurred. Suddenly, what had once been a sleepy account for the FBI was now teeming with activity. For the first time in years, the Severelli and Moriarti had violated the uneasy truce established during Alberto’s tenure. Kingsley found himself at the unit’s helm but with his historical knowledge of the Moriarti lacking. He reached out to Ned for help and with a strong suspicion that Sansa’s disappearance was intimately tied to the Moriarti family.

 

In the months since their initial meeting, Ned and Kingsley worked closely with one another. Their professional relationship had settled into a comfortable tandem, each relying on the other’s expertise to drive the investigation forward, while a friendship developed in the meantime.

 

The temporary move to Las Vegas was a significant step forward. In a matter of days, the painfully tedious investigation gained enormous momentum. Ned felt certain they were finally closing in on what they’d been working tirelessly towards.

 

Outside the hotel, the sun hadn’t yet stirred on the western horizon. Street lights blazing from up above illuminated the parking lot. As they crossed approached Kingsley’s car, Ned sensed the uneasiness that seemed to burden Kingsley. The man walked in hurried steps, his eyes scanning the lot as they went. The subtle disquiet was anomalous for Kingsley, who normally voiced his frustrations through hotheaded and colorfully worded diatribes.

 

After climbing into the driver’s seat of the car, Kingsley tossed his binder to the back. Ned lowered himself to the passenger seat and secured his briefcase on his lap.

 

Once inside the vehicle, Kingsley turned to Ned. The keys dangled from the ignition – the motor not yet running. The pink lights that shone from the hotel spilled through the windshield and cast Kingsley in a faint glow.

 

“Six hours ago the Moriarti and Severelli had it out in the middle of nowhere Nevada,” Kingsley began quietly.

 

Ned already anticipated this, as did Kingsley, Schroeder, and all the investigators working the case. They were all well aware of what was coming.

 

 _Something went wrong,_ Ned knew. Kingsley’s cryptic call had come hours later than he expected, and his partner’s behavior was unusually cagey.

 

“You know the informant we had at the meeting between the Moriarti and the cartel?” Kingsley asked, staring off towards the pink lights. Ned nodded, but uncertainty battered his calm facade. His hands began to shake again, even as he tucked them under his briefcase.

 

Schroeder had been over the moon about finding an informant a few weeks prior to the Moriarti’s meeting with the Caballero cartel. Behind a two-way mirror, Ned had watched the informant’s final round of questioning after the Moriarti-cartel meeting. Though Schroeder counted the man’s cooperation as an investigative success, the information provided was often full of holes. Ned had raised the flag on the informant’s reliability before, but Schroeder remained headstrong on the matter. He reasoned that it was a one in a million shot at finding someone willing to piss off a cartel and a mafia family in one fell swoop.

 

Kingsley chuckled now, soft at first, but then it erupted into sardonic laughter fueled by frustration and exhaustion.

 

“The informant got the location wrong. My agents showed up to an empty warehouse sixty miles south of where they should’ve been. Sixty fucking miles, Ned! By the time they got to the right place, the Moriarti and Severelli had already obliterated one another. Whoever survived fled and left a goddamn mess behind.”

 

Kingsley slammed the heel of his hand hard against the steering wheel.

 

“Son-of-a-bitch!” he shouted before slumping back in his seat. In the faint light, Ned could see Kingsley’s chest rising and falling in steady heaves.

 

“Alright, let’s just take this one step at a time,” Ned began steadily. “Who’s been accounted for? We’ll start there.”

 

Kingsley pulled in a deep, measured breath. He started up the engine and backed out of the parking space. The lights of the strip flitted by as Kingsley sped up the boulevard towards the highway.

 

“As far as men of any consequence, Gregor Clegane was burnt to crisp. A Moriarti capo, Murdoch, was identified among the dead.”

 

“Murdoch wouldn’t be the only capo that was sent to fight,” Ned reasoned. “The others must’ve fled. Is there any indication of who came out on top?”

                                                                                        

“This is where things get dicey,” Kingsley responded with subtle trepidation. “The informant was a bust, but that’s a risk we always take.” Kingsley paused. Ned could see the way Kingsley’s brow had furrowed, though his eyes remained steady on the road ahead. “That’s not all that happened last night, Ned,” he added on a soft exhale.

 

The car came to a stop at a red light. Across the intersection, cars dawdled slowly across, and Kingsley’s fingers distractedly traipsed through coins in the cup holder between them.

 

“Sometime after eleven last night, 911 calls came in reporting sounds of gunfire coming from Alberto Moriarti’s place. Two responding officers were on the scene about ten minutes later. They called for back up and, after back up radioed in that they were being fired at, no one heard from any of them again. Paramedics and a hoard of officers arrived sometime around midnight to a house full of dead bodies.”

 

The traffic light turned green. Kingsley stared at Ned who slumped further into his seat. His briefcase slid off his knees and down his legs. Though he anticipated the fall and even the pain as the briefcase crashed against the tops of his feet, he watched it happen and did nothing to stop it. His feet throbbed, and his stomach burned, but his thoughts were of Sansa in her white dress declaring she wasn’t a little girl anymore. He’d watched the sky turn dark moments before she came to his office, and he meant to warn her of the coming storm. If he could do it again, he might have pointed to the sky and begged her to stay. Instead, she had left his office, disappearing into the hall as gracefully as she entered. He had watched her leave. He had let her go.

 

From behind, a car blared its horn and flashed its high beams.

 

“Green light,” Ned mumbled as he snatched his briefcase off his feet.

 

Kingsley continued down the road, intermittently casting a glance in Ned’s direction as he navigated onto the highway.

 

“She wasn’t there, Ned,” Kingsley gently offered. “I would’ve told you if she was.”

 

“The compound had to be targeted by someone witting of the fight,” Kingsley continued moments later. “Whoever did it knew that the place was poorly secured.”

 

Ned nodded in agreement and rested his elbow against the door’s armrest. With his chin tucked in his hand, he stroked his beard with the tips of his fingers.

 

“It doesn’t make sense,” he shook his head. “That place should’ve been secured. It should’ve been fortified with a solid force of men. Not just made men, but capos, guys who’ve been through this before. When they go to war, families of high-ranking men bunker down together and are always sufficiently protected. The Moriarti are hyper vigilant about that, Kingsley.”

 

The car had taken on a claustrophobic quality. The distance they had left to travel seemed daunting, and Ned recognized familiar anxieties creeping in. He’d felt them once before when he and Kingsley took a road trip to Crescent City.

 

They departed for that trip in the early morning, but the air was already thick by then, and the humidity clung against Ned’s skin. Portland summers were never particularly humid, but the air was dense that day, the first anomaly of many.

With the windows rolled down, a salty breeze whipped through the car, loud enough that conversation between the two men was kept at a minimum as they enjoyed the scenic drive down the coast. Ned watched the waves crash against the craggy shore and disperse in a glittering array of droplets.

 

Again and again, mile after mile, he watched in wonderment until Kingsley rolled up the windows a few miles outside of Crescent City. In the deafening silence, the heaviness returned, though its manifestation was different. It came with a distinct sense of portent that flooded the small space and rendered the last few miles of their journey pure agony. Neither he nor Kingsley acknowledged it, whatever _it_ was.

 

That night in Ned’s hotel room, the logistics of the next day were planned over a vending machine dinner of chips, Gatorade, and candy bars. They discussed Ned’s “run-in” with the Moriarti in great detail, but staging serendipity was no easy work as it turned out. Well past midnight, the two of them methodically worked through all the alternatives. They deliberated each and every “what if” until there was nothing left – no more ideas or words. The only things left between them were a stack of papers, a pile of junk food wrappers, and the inexplicable and persistent heaviness.

 

The following day was warm and the air sweet with the smell of funnel cake and cotton candy. White-topped tents lined the street, and vendors busied themselves setting up their merchandise. Under different circumstances, Ned would have roamed the festival, buying up trinkets to give to Sansa or devouring the delicious varieties of food that Cat would’ve chided him about later. Instead, Ned was equipped with a stack of Sansa’s missing person flyers and a roll of scotch tape. He and Kingsley decided that he’d visit each booth, forlornly hanging up flyers at each one. Ned deliberately wrinkled his outfit the night before by crumpling it up at the bottom of his overnight bag. He’d grown his beard out already, and the bags beneath his eyes did not have to be feigned.

 

He foolishly believed it might be simple: he’d play his part so as to not tip off the Moriarti, and the meeting would go off as he and Kingsley planned. He’d elicit all the information that was required and funnel it back to the investigators staked out at the hotel. However, the heaviness reemerged halfway down the row of festival vendors and lingered behind him. It followed him as he visited each booth and watched as he tacked up flyers with Sansa’s picture.

 

 _It’s him,_ Ned finally realized.

 

The Hound followed him, just as Kingsley said he would. Ned forced his legs to move faster and pushed through the crowd, desperately shouldering past groups of people and veritably tossing the flyers into the passing booths. The darkness was behind him throughout it all. When he disappeared momentarily into the crowd, the heaviness dispersed, and for a moment, Ned thought he might regain himself. Yet, it came again, stronger than before.

 

He hadn’t bothered with the flyers anymore. Instead, he bounded towards a stage erected in the distance. Music blared, and Ned thought to run. The darkness, the heaviness – it would follow him. Once it had its sights on him, it wouldn’t relent. Past the stage where guitars wailed and a singer belted into a microphone, Ned hurried down the street away from the festival. When he reached his car, the singer’s voice was just a dull echo. He pulled a gun from the glove box and doubled back a short distance in the direction he’d come.

 

The enigma he’d chased after for so many long and tedious years stood unmoving only a short distance away. He towered over the men who remained firmly by his side. When Ned pointed his gun, the Hound hadn’t flinched. Instead, he’d slowly raised one massive hand in the air, while tossing his gun to the ground with the other. When he spoke, his voice was deep, his words assured, and his tenacity unyielding.

 

Ned watched in irate horror as Sansa's name eased off the man's lips with a familiarity he had no right to. Her name curled around the Hound's tongue, savored to the end, but his eyes were what housed the sickening truth. They were dark with possessiveness, an unwillingness to relent for what he deemed was his.

 

Madness took over, and Ned careened towards the Hound. He would’ve gladly coiled his hands around the Hound’s neck and squeezed until the monster turned black in the face. Instead, he was pulled away and forced to watch as the Hound once more eluded him by slinking off towards the shadows. He was powerless to stop him. All that could go wrong had.

 

In the hours after, Ned nursed the cuts and bruises he’d endured from Bronn. Kingsley apologized for the one true kick he’d accidentally delivered to Ned’s side and gently asked what happened, where things had gone wrong. Ned didn’t try to explain and only said that he didn’t know. The truth was that he hadn’t the words to describe what he saw: the dark desires that stirred so readily within the Hound’s eyes, prompted only by Sansa’s name. A silent knowing had alerted him to a new reality – one in which the Hound didn’t want anything Ned was willing to offer in return for Sansa. He already had what he wanted, and he wasn’t going to let her go.  

 

“I don’t know what went wrong.” Kingsley’s voice pierced through Ned’s recollections, echoing the quiet thoughts that had besieged Ned’s troubled mind. In the side view mirror’s reflection, Ned saw the Las Vegas skyline diminishing as the car barreled down the highway. “There’s no reason why we couldn’t have had these guys nailed at the industrial park. There’s no reason why Moriarti’s place shouldn’t have been under heavy surveillance last night.”

 

“The Moriarti rushed this war,” Ned reminded Kingsley. “No one saw that coming. Not even me. They forced their hand and wanted it done quicker than any of us anticipated. It was an enormous mistake on their part and caused us a logistical nightmare. You did what you could with the time you had.”

 

“We dropped the ball on this.” Kingsley’s lips contorted into a distinct scowl as if he were gritting his teeth together. “There’s no two ways around it. Schroeder called me just before I talked to you, said he’d been at Moriarti’s for a few hours already. Why the fuck couldn’t he have told us sooner?” Kingsley paused momentarily and shook his head. “That bastard is hell bent on screwing shit over for us,” he mumbled quietly.  

Ned didn't know Schroeder like he knew Kingsley. He knew enough to know that Schroeder had been a perpetual thorn in Kingsley’s side. Ned had seen the power struggle between local and federal authorities before, but never to such a serious extent. Kingsley resented Schroeder for routinely sidetracking investigations and blatantly ignoring necessary bureau procedures. Schroeder returned the sentiment with a longstanding disdain for what he viewed as meddlesome FBI agents. Still, their mutual misunderstandings didn’t fully account for the bad blood between them.

 _"What’s the story with you and Schroeder?"_  Ned had wanted to ask Kingsley for quite some time. The question was on the tip of his tongue whenever Kingsley talked about Schroeder with an evident bitterness that tended towards hostility.

Kingsley didn't like liars, and perhaps that was why he never strayed from the truth himself.  _"Take what Schroeder says with a grain of salt, Ned. That's the best advice I can give,"_ was all Kingsley had ever really said. Ned took it as more of a warning than anything, and that was as far as their conversations about Schroeder ever got. 

“He hasn’t been easy to work with,” Ned agreed distractedly, though he couldn’t quite speak to that fact. He hadn’t worked closely with Schroeder like Kingsley had and Ned only visited him once in Las Vegas.

 

Schroeder had insisted on making an appearance at Mirabelle Clegane’s funeral to rattle the Moriarti’s cage. Though Ned found it to be in poor taste, he’d made no motions against it. A few days later, Ned sat on the other side of Schroeder’s desk with Wyatt Earp glowering at him and the faint smell of tobacco smoke lingering in the air.

"I saw Sansa with my own two eyes, Ned,” Schroeder had boasted. “She's with him, and she’s not going anywhere.”

The half-assed consolation had slicked off of Schroeder's tongue with blasé ease. The man laughed afterwards – a low grumble, seedy in an obscure and inappropriate way. Something in Schroeder’s voice, the subtle deviousness and the implication that he knew more and saw more than he let on, left Ned toiling over the words and their horrid suggestion.

 

_"She's with him."_

 

After his meeting with Schroeder, whenever Ned remembered how the Hound had said Sansa's name, there crept a lasciviousness that hadn't been there before. In his nightmares, her name eased from half-marred lips with horrendous pleasure, and a murmured declaration would follow on a voice too soft for him to hear. The voice would grow louder, though, swelling with visceral insistence until the words were bellowing from the Hound’s lips.

 

_“She’s mine.”_

 

Ned shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the tops of his feet aching now. The city was well behind them, and suburbia waned to a few small towns dotted along the highway. The sun began to spill over a far off range of craggy hills and illuminated the car in pale pristine light. Out the window, Ned stared at a formation of rocks in the distance. Their shadows extended them far across the fissured expanse of earth.

 

“The Hound. Is he dead?” Ned demanded suddenly.

 

“I’m not sure,” Kingsley replied, shaking his head. “He wasn’t at Moriarti’s or the warehouse.”

 

 _It’s the end of the line,_ Ned thought, but didn’t know for whom the musing was meant – him or the Hound. _One or the other, but it can’t be both,_ a voice invaded his thoughts. Yet again, it spoke to all the things Ned couldn’t quite put into words, all those ripples in dark and troubling waters.

 

“This is my last shot at him, Kingsley,” Ned admitted. “He can’t murder my brother and my wife, take my daughter from me, and get away with this.”

 

Kingsley navigated towards an exit off the highway. He came to a stop at the end of the off-ramp and looked to Ned. The engine hummed in the few quiet moments before Kingsley finally spoke.

 

“Sandor, Bronn, some of the capos – I’ve gotten to know those guys. They’re arrogant. They think they’re unstoppable. You already know these things, but you also know, as well as I do, it was only a matter of time before they fucked up. Their fate was sealed the second they crawled into bed with that cartel. They’ve been on the FBI radar for a long time, but as soon as the DEA caught wind of cartel involvement they were all over this. All these years of waiting for that fuck up finally paid off. This is it for them. You know that, don’t you?”

 

Ned had asked himself the same question once before. During the final months of tying up loose ends on the Moriarti case he’d built for years, he preemptively considered the case a success. Unbeknownst to him, he’d hung his hopes on a house of cards. In the eleventh hour, it all came tumbling down. No amount of hard work or years of service to the case mattered.

“All I know is this,” Ned began cautiously. “I want my daughter back and, dead or alive, I want the Hound accounted for. I want the Moriarti held accountable for all the evil shit they’ve done in this world.”

“Fair enough. We’ll make it happen.” Kingsley nodded with a faint smile.

They traveled down a two-lane state road, and Kingsley took the sharp turns with caution. The road was remote and wound steadily up a hill. After a few miles, a street appeared with nothing more than a small sign announcing its name. Kingsley turned down the street and continued at a slow pace towards a few large houses off in the distance.  

Mostly empty lots filled the neighborhood, perhaps first envisioned as a sprawling oasis in the desert, but falling short of expectations as money dried up. The visionaries clearly abandoned their project, leaving behind a handful of exorbitantly large mansions in the middle of absolutely nowhere. From what Ned could tell, the nearest town boasting anything more than a liquor store and gas station was probably a twenty-minute drive away or more.

They approached the end of the street and the largest mansion in the neighborhood, its drive half-full of emergency vehicles. Ned had always imagined Moriarti’s compound as some concrete fortress, stripped down to only the necessities, as bleak and impenetrable as the Moriarti themselves. To his surprise, the Moriarti compound wasn't a compound at all, but rather a Mediterranean style mansion – a tiled roof, stucco exterior, balconies along the front flanking an over-sized porch, and a fountain placed in the middle of a half-circle driveway, which separated the mansion from the street by a considerable distance.  

The mansion boasted the extravagance one would expect from a mafia Don, who had stepped down after collecting large amounts of wealth throughout his tenure. The house was an ostentatious anomaly in a location obviously chosen for its innocuousness. At first blush, it seemed a contradiction, but the more Ned stared at it, the more the mansion's intentional and strategic genius revealed itself to him.

 _You can’t make waves in the middle of the desert,_ he mused before glancing towards the driveway.

A police officer approached the vehicle warily, trying in earnest to peer through the heavy tint of the car's windows.

"You've got to keep moving," the officer shouted, his hand resting on the pistol at his hip.

Ned rolled down the window, and the officer crouched down to look inside.

"I’m Ned Stark, district attorney from Portland. This is Special Agent Kingsley Bright with the FBI," Ned hollered out the window.

"We're here to speak with Malcolm Schroeder. He's expecting us," Kingsley added and he held out his badge towards the open window.

When the officer faltered, Ned studied his uniform.  His shirt’s patch boasted the name of the nearest town, and the man himself possessed the telltale uncertainty of a small-town deputy sheriff. His face was pale, his eyes blood-shot and glassy as he stared into the car.

"Alright," the officer relented. "Keep your car parked here. I'll escort you."

The officer turned on his heel and was already heading up the driveway, while Ned and Kingsley scrambled out of the car. They fell in next to the officer when they neared the mansion.

Ned observed people meandering in and out of the open front door. Men in suits spoke to one another animatedly, arms waving in the air, though their voices were hushed. Police officers on the scene looked as shell-shocked and disturbed as the deputy sheriff leading them towards the steps of a sprawling front porch. EMT workers carried bodies, covered in the shroud of a black bag, down the steps. One after the other, the bodies were placed in ambulances, which commenced at a somber pace down the drive, sirens silent and lights extinguished – nothing to be done for those inside.

Malcolm Schroeder emerged through the front door with another man, who bounded off towards a group of police officers gathered by their squad cars. Schroeder was a tall, solidly built man, although age and stress were beginning to take their toll in the form of deep lines around his eyes and a beer gut protruding from his middle. He kept his dark brown hair combed back, though it still revealed a thinning hairline.

Schroeder meandered towards Ned and Kingsley. He circled around emergency workers and headed down the steps with his usual lumbering gait – slow movements with wide-swinging limbs. He talked in the same manner that he walked – everything drawn out in a deliberate and steady pace.

"Gentlemen," he greeted both Kingsley and Ned with a nod in each of their directions.

Ned took a step forward and offered Schroeder a firm handshake.  A distinct hostility lingered between Kingsley and Schroeder even as they exchanged a similar greeting. 

"How long have you been here?" Ned inquired, settling back on his heels and staring up at the mansion.

"I received the call around one in the morning and got here as quick as I could. I've been here since two I'd say."

Schroeder was pushing dirt around with the tip of his suede cowboy boot, and his arms folded across his chest as he studied the patterns trailing through the dust.

"It's good to see you again," Schroeder said to Ned with an uncharacteristic softness when he lifted his eyes.  What was meant to be a gesture of kindness instead left Ned unnerved.

“We can certainly make use of your famed Moriarti expertise here,” he added. “I never was one for small talk, though. Shall we?" Schroeder tucked his hands in his pockets and began towards the front steps of the Moriarti mansion. He turned to Ned as they ascended the steps, voice drawn low to a murmur.

"Listen, I want you to know what we'll be walking into," Schroeder cautioned ominously. "It's bad in there."

Halfway up the steps, Ned stopped and stared through the open door. Blood was splattered against the far wall of the foyer and pooled on the floor, the edges drying dark against tile the color of sand.

"Am I going to find a dead daughter inside?" Ned demanded, louder than he intended. The officers perched by their squad cards quieted to listen. The hush spread, and conversations ceased to an eerie silence that left Schroeder visibly unnerved. 

The man hovered a few steps above Ned and glanced back towards the open door before answering.

"No. I checked before every body was put in a bag. She wasn't here.”

Schroeder's glower may have gone unnoticed by the others, or perhaps they'd chalk it up to the man being sleep deprived and on-edge after a night of gruesome work. His words were curt and abrupt, as though he’d hoped to avoid the question altogether. Moments earlier, Schroeder had regarded Ned with tepid pleasantries. Though they were insincere in the first place, those pleasantries were abandoned now. He didn't like to be questioned and certainly not in front of others he considered his subordinates, but his defiance was odd and out of place, too blatantly defensive to be explained away by fatigue. When Schroeder continued on towards the front door, Ned exchanged a glance with Kingsley, who appeared similarly put-off by Schroeder's sudden brusqueness. 

"The coroner's had his hands full, but he's just about done," Schroeder informed when they stepped into the foyer.

The splatter Ned briefly saw moments before paled in comparison to the grotesque way blood stained the walls. Red streaks were smeared on the floor from individuals who did not die instantaneously, but rather crawled on their bellies towards the hope of safety.

Bodies were scattered throughout the foyer and into a great room. They were covered over with white sheets – a gift of modesty though the legs and feet were still visible, poking out as a reminder of what was underneath. Most of the sheets were stained red in large blotches near the top and the middle, the areas where fatal injuries were sustained.

Ned counted fifteen bloodied-sheets and, no matter where he averted his eyes, he saw red, running in dried rivulets down the walls or pooled, smeared, and in hand and foot prints on the floor.

A crime scene photographer carefully maneuvered around the bodies, snapping photographs that would end up in the hands of an unmoved lawyer, a callous investigator, and perhaps put on display in a courtroom to shock a jury into a guilty verdict. Yet, Ned didn't know if these men deserved justice. They were criminals, and they chose the path that led them here, lying dead beneath white sheets. These graphic photographs immortalizing the horrors of a crime scene were their only _memento mori_.  

A sheet was lifted off one man so the photographer could do his work. Ned glimpsed the face, which was a nearly unrecognizable mess of dried blood and mangled flesh. The man was tall and built with thick-limbs. Ned recognized him by his size and the tattoo covering his forearm.

“Johnny Allen. Or ‘Big Johnny,’ as the Moriarti called him,” Ned noted.

“And this one?” Schroeder lifted the sheet off of a body laying a few feet from Big Johnny’s.

“You should know who that is,” Ned deadpanned. Schroeder shifted uncomfortably beneath Ned’s stare. “Stephen ‘Disco’ Mareth. He’s the capo who heads up the Las Vegas division. That’s in your own backyard, Schroeder.”

Ned’s hands found their way to his hips as he walked back towards Kingsley, whose lips had lifted into a slight smile. Schroeder’s face flushed red, and his eyes narrowed at Ned. A pair of paramedics carrying another body bag passed between Ned and Schroeder.

"Jesus Christ," Kingsley breathed. He stepped towards Schroeder with a scowl and spoke with a frustrated fervor, though his words came quiet. "You said this place was under surveillance."

Schroeder was at least six inches taller than Kingsley, and the taupe-colored cowboy boots he favored so much added another two inches of height.  He took a step towards Kingsley and glared down at the man with the disdain of someone who just had fifteen bodies laid at his feet.  

Schroeder didn't think much of mafia men and spoke of them like they were animals that needed to be dealt with, vermin to be squashed beneath the heel of his boot. That was what really bothered Schroeder about Kingsley’s words: not that he would be held responsible for the death of Moriarti men, but rather that the lives of those men somehow mattered. To Schroeder, they didn't matter, and it was wrong of Kingsley to suggest a guilty conscience was in order.

"It was under surveillance, Agent Bright," Schroeder seethed in the space between him and Kingsley. "The local police department was keeping an eye on this place – the same department whose sheriff says Mr. Moriarti was a kind old man, who made no trouble in the community; the same sheriff who turned his head when a mafia boss set up shop in this town twenty years ago; the same sheriff who’s been cowering in fear ever since then, hoping like hell something of this magnitude wouldn't happen on his watch."

Schroeder turned away and bounded towards the great room beyond the foyer. His boots stomped against the ground, and his voice echoed throughout the room as Ned and Kingsley followed behind.

"But it did happen, and now the sheriff is in over his head. He lost four of his officers last night – one of them dead in an upstairs bedroom, the other three in the basement."  

Midway through the explanation he was loath to give, Schroeder turned around abruptly in the middle of a hallway lined with framed photographs.  

"Let me put that in perspective for you, Kingsley. That's about half of the police force in this town. So yes, this place was under surveillance by a few officers, who didn't know what the fuck they were doing and who told me to pound sand when I suggested they might need help from my department. The worst they've dealt with are bored kids stirring up trouble, tweeked out drug addicts, and the occasional drunk driver or two. Now, there are over thirty people who were murdered here last night, and the morgue at the local hospital can't hold all the dead bodies. Is this making sense to you?"

"Hold on a just minute,” Ned interjected forcefully. “Thirty people?" The number came at tremendous odds to the fifteen bloody sheets he counted earlier.

"Thirty-eight," Schroeder corrected and continued on towards a door at the end of the hallway.  "It's hard to tell who's who, but it looks as if most were with the Moriarti camp.”

Kingsley and Schroeder continued towards the end of the hall. Ned lingered a few paces behind, surveying the pictures lining the halls. With each passing photograph, he found himself increasingly fixated, and his steps came slower.

The images were of what looked to be ordinary people, family members whose memories were honored on the wall. For a place touted as a compound – some cold and forbidding refuge of heartless men – the photographs suggested a normalcy that Ned had never before associated with the organization. The Moriarti called themselves a family, after all, yet Ned had never regarded them as a family in truth, only in name.

They were criminals, wicked men making their own rules in the world and hurting innocent people along the way. Yet, the oath of family in name might as well have been family in blood to these men, and the faces hung on the wall were not so different from any other family photos.  Every smile was just as genuine, the pride and love just as evident.

Ned walked the row of photographs and studied the images of Alberto Moriarti’s life. There were war photos of Moriarti’s father and his battle buddies. There were photos of weddings, photos of laughing children and beaming mothers, photos of pretty girls and doting men.

Schroeder and Kingsley had disappeared down the steps leading to a basement, but Ned remained behind. He stopped in front of a photo halfway down the hall. In this photograph, Alberto was older, though no less proud and distinguished. Next to him stood the Hound, who looked no more than Sansa’s age. Wearing a suit and a lopsided smile, Clegane held up a burnt Ace of Spades card to the camera. Alberto stood by his side, glowing with pride.

Recognition stirred within Ned, as though he’d seen this picture before. The sentiment looked somehow familiar. A few moments passed before the remembrance barreled into him. On his desk in Portland was a photograph of him and Sansa after her graduation. She clutched her diploma in her hands with a dazzling smile, and Ned stood by her side, bursting with pride at his daughter’s accomplishments and bright future. Ned knew the look on Alberto’s face in the photograph. He understood the levity in Alberto’s smile and the light in his eyes. By all appearances, Alberto Moriarti was just as a much a father as Ned was, but the notion was unsettling.

Ned quickly averted his eyes from the photograph and continued down the hall, refusing to look at the other photos. His hurried steps landed heavy against the floor. He took the stairs to the basement carefully despite his haste. They were narrow and not much light was coming from the bottom, where a door was left open. Downstairs, the area was set up as a lounge, spacious enough to host three-dozen people or more and luxuriously outfitted despite a rustic facade.  

Ned kept a brisk pace through the lounge, heading past poker tables and a sizeable bar, towards a wooden door on the other side of the room, where Schroeder and Kingsley waited for him. Through the door, Schroeder navigated darkly lit halls, his head half-turned over his shoulder as he continued to relay details of the night's events.

"Most of the fighting happened upstairs, near the front of the house and in the kitchen. The Moriarti men were put down pretty damn quick by the looks of it. The Severelli must have come in force. They massacred everyone who was here and bailed afterwards."  

They stopped at a metal door, and Schroeder faltered briefly before turning to Ned and Kingsley.  

"This is where the women were. They were either hiding or were taken here by the Severelli."

With a firm pull, Schroeder opened the door and Ned and Kingsley followed him through to the other side. The area was a garage, situated on the western side of the mansion and large enough for five vehicles at least. The garage door was left open, and a cold breeze swept through the empty space. Two squad cars from the local police department were parked outside, blocked off by yellow tape with a few remaining investigators peering into the vehicles.

Whereas the mansion itself was lavish beyond all of Ned's expectations, the garage was stark and barren, every bit the bleak compound Ned had anticipated. Set against an empty space, the violence was visible.  Upstairs, Ned could count the bodies and knew how many had been lost. In the garage, the victims had already been removed, and the only traces left were their bloodstains.

"How many were here?" Ned insisted, as he stared at the ground towards one single body covered in a sheet, not yet collected and purposefully left behind, or so it seemed.

"Thirteen," Schroeder responded tepidly and followed Ned’s eyes to the covered body on the floor. "I know what your daughter looks like," the man added forcefully with the same affront he'd regarded Kingsley with earlier. "She wasn't here last night."

“Then who was here?” Ned’s voice echoed dully throughout the space. “I’ve identified two dead capos for you, and you’ve yet to tell either Agent Bright or myself where the rest of them are. All you’ve shown us is a mess!”

Schroeder approached Ned, heels scraping against the polished concrete with each slow step and his intimidating intent quite obvious, though alarmingly peculiar.

“A mess is a good thing, Ned,” Schroeder insisted. “We need this kind of chaos to build a case against them, don’t we? We need Moriarti men with blood on their hands.”

 

“We don’t need a mess. We need to find my daughter!” Ned shouted. He closed the distance between himself and Schroeder in a few short steps. “You said she’d be here.”

 

Schroeder’s gaze flickered up and down Ned’s form. A smile grew on his lips as he shook his head faintly.

 

“You think all we need is to find your daughter, but let me ask you something, Ned. Are you certain that she’ll testify against them?”

 

“Why the hell wouldn’t she?” Ned seethed.

 

“You know why she wouldn’t.” Schroeder’s voice softened to nothing more than a rasping murmur. He loomed in front of Ned with a cocksure smile lifting the corners of his lips. “I told you what I saw at Mirabelle Clegane’s funeral. Sansa was right by his side the whole damn time. You should’ve seen the way she was loved up on him.”

Ned hurled himself at Schroeder, shoving hard against the man's chest and taking him by obvious surprise. Schroeder stumbled backwards and lost his balance, falling towards the floor.

"If she’s with him, then where the hell is she?" Ned bellowed, hovering over the man. "You told me to wait!  We could've had her by now, and this wouldn't have happened!"

Ned launched towards Schroeder once more, and his knees hit the ground hard before his fists coiled around the man’s shirt. Ned shook him, throwing his weight against Schroeder until Kingsley was pulling him off, inserting himself between the two men. 

"I never said for sure she’d be here last night!" Schroeder shouted, regaining his feet and lurching towards Ned in one swift movement. Kingsley's arm shot up, pushing Schroeder back as the man continued hurtling his words at Ned.

"I told you they’d be together, and Clegane wasn't here last night either! So what the fuck do you care about what happened here? You care about these people now?" Schroeder motioned towards the blood-stained floor before bounding in the direction of the body behind him, where he ripped off the sheet.

"You care about him? You care that he's dead?"

Lying on the floor, Alberto Moriarti looked frail, skin waxen and pallid, his grey hair tousled, and the front of his white shirt soaked with dried blood. 

"Moriarti," Ned mumbled. He stared solemnly at the fallen patriarch.  

"That's right. Old piece of shit."

With the tip of his boot, Schroeder delivered a hard kick to Moriarti's side. The dead man's body shifted against the force, but remained rigid on the ground with eyes shut and mouth partially open, arms crossed about his belly.

"They got what they deserved," Schroeder continued, staring down at Moriarti. "All of them got what they deserved."

The same comments were made after the Royce massacre, when it was suggested that Nestor had brought it on himself after years of under-the-table dealings with crooked judges, dirty cops, and eventually the mob. The assertion disgusted Ned then, just as it did now.

To men like Schroeder, the violence and death endured last night was necessary to balance the scales. Schroeder took the old adage that justice should be blind to heart. For him, that blindness had bred ignorance and a dangerous kind of ruthlessness that thrived behind a badge and an oath to protect and serve.

Ned once asked his brother why he continued pursuing the Moriarti after so many fruitless years. _“For the greater good, Ned. To triumph over evil,”_ Brandon declared gallantly with a righteous smile, as bright and brave as ever.

Schroeder loomed over the corpse of Alberto Moriarti, and Ned couldn’t quite say which man was the lesser evil. Good and evil was a continuum, not a line in the sand where men pick their sides and fight their battles against the other half. Good men do awful things, and bad men have the capacity to love, to raise families, to be fathers. Only tragedy was universal, and the horrors endured in Moriarti’s home were most certainly a grievous tragedy.

"No one deserves to die like this," Ned declared. He glanced briefly at Alberto once more before striding towards the metal door, back in the direction they had come. He retreated through the dark halls with the sound of Kingsley following after him and Schroeder somewhere further back.

He continued upstairs, past the photographs and into the open foyer, where the procession of body bags continued out the front door. Ned lingered in the front doorway for Kingsley, whose face was drawn in somber reverie as he surveyed what was left of the Moriarti home.

Ned contemplated the large staircase overlooking the foyer. The tiled stairs were pristine and veritably untouched by the bloodshed that had ensued below. The beige walls leading up to the landing above lacked splatter or any visible traces of violence.

"You haven’t showed us what’s upstairs, Schroeder,” Ned commented. With his arms crossed about his chest, he motioned his head towards the landing up above. “You said an officer was found dead up there.”

"Three men were dead upstairs. One of the first responders and two men identified as Severelli capos," Schroeder informed. He began to pace again, heels clicking and hands settled on his hips, anxious for Kingsley and Ned to depart. “Other than that, there’s nothing much to see.”

"Two Severelli capos were up there?" Kingsley repeated incredulously. He followed Ned’s eyes upstairs. "It makes no sense for them to have been up there."

"They could have been sweeping through, while the others held down the basement," Schroeder speculated with a dismissive shrug. 

"They wouldn't send capos to do that job. That's a job for made men," Ned quickly corrected. "Besides, they wouldn't have gotten that far without the Moriarti men being long dead first."

When their eyes met, Kingsley gave a small nod, and both men dashed towards the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.

Upstairs, hallways were situated on either side of the landing, each lined with doors. Down the hall to the right, a door had been left open, and light was spilling out against the floor. Ned headed down the hall, while Schroeder began ascending the stairs.

"I said there’s nothing to see up there, gentleman," he shouted after them.

A flimsy length of police tape blocked off the open door. Ned tore away at it and entered the room, easing around a large bloodstain in front of the doorway. The bedroom was spacious, boasting tall ceilings and oversized furniture, which still struggled to fill the room.  Blood was smeared down the wall adjacent to the door and dried in a large stain against the carpet directly beneath. The drapes adorning the windows were open, and the sun spilled through the clouds in radiant streams.

The third bloodstain, accounting for the third body, was on the bed. The bed sheets were in complete disarray – crumpled and twisted.  In the center, blood soaked the sheets in haphazard patterns.  A struggle had clearly ensued on the bed.

"Someone else was up here with them," Ned asserted, spinning on his heel towards Schroeder.

"Someone who either got away or only made it as far as the basement," Kingsley finished, nodding his head and scrutinizing the bed sheets before lifting a glance towards Schroeder.  "What evidence was collected up here?"

"Three pistols, a few casings," Schroeder responded, pinching the bridge of his nose and shifting beneath the doorframe. "I don't know what else. I wasn't up here."

Kingsley stepped towards the bed until his legs were flush with the edge of the mattress, which he leaned over, careful not to disturb the sheets. As he muttered something to himself, his two fingers delicately picked at the pillow.

Turning around, Kingsley held up his two fingers, still pinched together and lifted towards the light coming through the window.

"What is it?" Ned asked. Before Kingsley could answer him, Ned glimpsed a strand of something – thread perhaps – between Kingsley's fingers.  When he stepped closer, towards the light, the thin thread lit up in auburn color, hanging long from Kingsley's fingers. He held not a thread at all, but a strand of hair.

In unison, Kingsley and Ned turned to Schroeder, whose mouth momentarily hung agape and then sealed shut again in a stern scowl.

"It doesn't mean she was in this room, Ned," he asserted defensively, though he took steps backwards towards the door.

 _She’s with him,_ Ned’s mind taunted – sirens blaring, the warning bells Kingsley had cautioned about.

"You don't know that!" Ned bellowed. "Send it to a goddamn lab, and find out for sure!"

He shouldered past Schroeder and into the hallway, fists curled, nails digging painfully into the palms of his hands, and feet pounding against the floor.

"Even if she was here, she's gone again!" Schroeder shouted down the hall.  

Ned stopped midstride and stared at the ground. With his back to Kingsley and Schroeder, who he could hear shifting nervously behind him, the anger dissipated. His fists uncurled, and he no longer entertained the wild visions of barreling down the hall towards Schroeder.

Everything around him suddenly softened. The sounds became muffled and distant, and the light dimmed though the clouds hadn’t yet conquered the sun. Heaviness grew in the vacancy of anger, pressing in on him, though it wasn't the claustrophobic sense of urgency he was used to.

Standing in the hallway of this abandoned and desecrated home, Ned recognized the quiet murmurs of the voice he couldn't ignore. It didn't speak with words, but instead beckoned Ned to look at the door he'd stopped in front of, a door leading to a room catty-corner from the one he'd just been in.

"What's in here?" Ned asked, his hand lifting to the doorknob before Schroeder could answer.

"Just another bedroom," Ned heard from down the hall as he pushed through the door anyhow.

On the other side, the air was stale. Bits of dust floated through sun streams, which created the illusion of a hazy glow encompassing the quiet space.  

"Ned, I said there's nothing in there," Schroeder repeated more insistently. His voice echoed along with the footsteps coming down the hall.

Ned ignored both and walked to the center of the room, a smaller version of the last bedroom he’d just been in. While the rest of the mansion was left in chaos, this room appeared untouched. A floral bedspread was pulled taut against the mattress, and the pillows were in orderly rows.  Fresh flowers had been put in a green glass vase and placed on a nightstand. The room seemed to exist on its own, separate from the rest of the mansion and immune to the bloodshed and violence. The walls themselves and everything they sheltered radiated a sense of peace carved out from a greater whole that had known so much tragedy.

 _Who made it this way and why_ , Ned pondered momentarily with a dull sense of curiosity.

He stepped towards a dresser against the far wall of the room. Picture frames adorned its length in one long row. Through the mirror that hung above the dresser, Ned could see Kingsley enter the room along with Schroeder, red-faced and silently fuming.

Mirabelle Clegane appeared in all the photographs – smiling through bright red lips, eyes crinkled with laughter, and black hair framing a heart-shaped face. Kingsley previously mentioned having met her once before, and by all accounts, she was a vivacious spirit with a warm heart. Her untimely death had come as a shock, and even Ned had felt the pangs of bittersweet condolence at the news. Mirabelle was posed in a few pictures with other women, friends who she wrapped tightly in a hug. In another picture, Ned recognized Alberto Moriarti. The old man wore a sombrero. His eyes were closed and his mouth open in a fit of laughter, and Mirabelle was kissing his cheek, a margarita glass in hand. Ned felt a faint tug at the corners of his mouth, the emergence of a smile, which faded when his eyes scanned to the last picture in the row. He took the frame in his hands and saw Mirabelle standing next to a man who was at least a head taller than her, but who shared the same black hair and grey eyes.  

 _Sandor Clegane,_ Ned acknowledged.

The resemblance between the two was obvious, as well as the affection with which they seemed to regard one another. Mirabelle’s face was pressed against his chest, and Sandor's hand was clutched protectively around her shoulder. They weren't staring at the camera, but rather at one another with noticeable endearment.

"What is it?" Kingsley inquired. Ned glanced towards the mirror, but he wasn't looking at Kingsley.

Instead, his eyes were drawn to the opposing wall and a closet door, which had been left open. Through the reflection, he could see it was mostly empty.  The contents had been cleared out, and only a few items remained.

Ned's mouth opened to tell Kingsley it was nothing, but he remained silent instead. His eyes were steady on the closet, scrutinizing inconsequential details. Then, he spotted something that had been shoved to the far side of the closet, hidden in the shadows and hardly discernable.  

Spinning around, picture frame still clutched in his hands, Ned moved across the room, slowly at first, until Kingsley spoke again with subtle and nervous urgency.

"Ned, what is it?"

He quickened his pace the rest of the way and flung open the closet door. The sun spilled into the darkened space, illuminating a white dress shoved far into the corner. Ned ripped the dress from its hanger. It was shorter than anything he would ever let Sansa wear. The straps were still too thin and the cut too low, but now the white fabric was patterned in faded brown splotches of dried blood.   

With the dress balled in one hand, Ned glared at the picture in the other. Sandor Clegane had a sister, one he loved very much. The monster was a man – not a phantasmal, preternatural force, as Ned once believed when Clegane seemed to slip through his fingers at every turn. Flesh and blood, he existed. He had things that he loved, things that would tear him apart to ever lose. And he had lost those things – his sister, Alberto, his organization. Yet, he had still taken from Ned the only thing that mattered anymore, the only person he had left to love.

Ned hurled the picture frame across the room and watched with irate satisfaction as it shattered against the far wall, crashing down onto the floor in shards of broken glass.

_"I'm not a little girl anymore."_

He could hear Sansa's voice and remembered the way she smiled at him when she said the words, some of her last. He remembered the way she cried in his arms one night as a young girl, convinced she was cursed after reading palms with her Grandmother. Even years later, he'd find her face drawn in worry when she studied the lines of her palm with fear heavy in her eyes. His little girl knew something that he didn't. She felt it in a way Ned never understood until now.

_She’s with him._

The voice spoke, and Ned recognized it as the truth. It came brutal, as he knew it would. It left him breathless, doubled over with his hands on his knees and furious tears rolling down his cheeks. By some inexplicable medium, he’d already known somehow, but refused to believe. He turned to Kingsley. His friend stood at his side, a resolute channel for all the sordid rage Ned couldn’t manage on his own.

Ned lifted himself to full height once more and swatted at the tears wetting his cheeks. He willed himself back into the very image of a rock – strong and persistent, though he was visibly trembling and his fists clenched in on themselves with the dress in one hand.

“Where is he?” Kingsley demanded of Schroeder. “Where the fuck are _they_?”

Schroeder flinched, and the extent of his shame only went so far as to preserve his ego. He stared at his boots and did not speak, but merely shook his head, at a loss after the defiance he favored so well was stripped from him.

“Answer the goddamn question!” Kingsley hollered.

“Clegane was admitted to a hospital last night,” Schroeder confessed, though reluctantly. “He’s lucky to have made it that far. He’s probably dead by now.” He cast a doleful glance in Ned’s direction, but it did not linger or hold any true measure of regret. “I don’t know where your daughter is, Ned.”

For a moment, the room went quiet. The calm that accompanied the silence earlier had suddenly fled. The air felt dense, thick and heavy. The claustrophobia returned.

“That was your job,” Ned asserted as he headed for the door. He stopped in front of Schroeder, and both men hovered in the small space beneath the doorframe. “Your part in this was to be our eyes and ears out here. I cannot reconcile why you’ve done the things you’ve done, Schroeder.”

Though they stood a breath apart within the doorway, Schroeder held his ground. His gaze didn’t falter or abandon the menace that stirred dark in his eyes.

“No, I think there’s only one thing you’re having trouble reconciling, Ned. And that ain’t my problem,” he countered. His mouth hung open as if there were more he meant to say, but the clicking of heels interrupted him. The sound echoed from the staircase in fierce rhythm.  

Ned stepped in the hall as an investigator on Kingsley’s team hurried towards him. The buttons of her jacket were mismatched, and a scarf was haphazardly tossed around her neck. She stopped midway down the hall, and her eyes shifted between Ned, Kingsley, and Schroeder, who’d all spilled into the hallway.

“He’s alive,” she informed breathlessly. “Clegane made it through the night. He’s at a hospital on the north side of town, one where the Moriarti have connections.”

Schroeder’s boot tapped faintly against the floor, and he drew in a deep breath. He moved forward, as if to follow after the investigator who retreated back towards the stairs. Ned stepped in front of him and held out his arm to block his path.

“We’ll take it from here,” he insisted, before heading down the hall.

Ned retreated down the steps leading to the foyer, which was now empty though the bloodstains still remained. Outside, the sky was grey, and most of the emergency vehicles had already departed. He stopped at the fountain and sat on the cold marble edge. With the fountain turned off, the water inside was dark and murky, but rippled gently against the rising wind. Ned’s back was turned to the mansion as he wrung Sansa’s dress between his hands.

The sun had disappeared behind a black mass of clouds gathering in the distance. As he turned his eyes to the sky, Ned recognized the turmoil up above. It reminded him of the storm that had raged over Portland one summer evening so many months ago. He’d watched the beginnings of that particular storm from his office window. The wind had whipped through the trees, which swayed to and fro with enough force that limbs snapped. The sky had gone dark as soot, and a voice from within warned on a whisper of unspeakable things to come.

Ned unfolded Sansa’s dress and laid it on his lap. His fingers ran circles around the stains and connected them one by one. Kingsley sat down beside him and watched silently as he did this.

“How could this have happened?” Ned murmured.

Kingsley shook his head and looked down at Sansa’s dress. Ned’s hands pressed flat against the fabric now.

“I don’t know the answer to that,” Kingsley responded sincerely.

“You knew what was going on between them,” Ned remarked quietly. “When you met with Sandor in Crescent City, you must’ve known then.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Kingsley confessed, obvious guilt coloring his words as he stared solemnly at Ned. “Then again, I didn’t think I had to tell you. You seemed to have already known.”

Ned slowly lifted himself to his feet, and his body ached now. His knees throbbed, and the fatigue of sleepless nights settled deep within his bones.

“I know what went on here,” he whispered with a nod. “I knew it in the way he said her name. I knew it in the way he looked at me.”

Ned cast a glance towards the mansion for what he knew would be the last time. No one would come here again. Moriarti’s home would be surrendered to the elements and forgotten in time. In the absence of sunlight, it appeared decrepit somehow, already greyed and ashen. It would never again be what it once was – neither a safe haven nor a home. In thoughtful, unhurried movements, Ned began carefully folding Sansa’s dress.

“When I see Sansa again, I imagine I’ll know it in the way she says his name and the way she looks at me – so fearful of my disappointment, but wanting what she wants all the same.”

He traipsed his fingertips over the wrinkled and stained fabric once more before placing the dress gently on the fountain’s edge. When he was done with his ritual, he looked to the sky, and Kingsley followed his eyes there.

“What’ll you say to your daughter in that moment, Ned?” Kingsley pressed. The wind had begun to lash around them and whipped up plumes of dirt. The clamorous boom of thunder erupted from the sky above. Raindrops pattered the ground around them.

“The truth. I’ll tell her the truth,” Ned began deliberately. “That bad men exist in this world, and he is surely one of them. That he lied to her. That I’m sorry he ever convinced her he was worthy of her graciousness, her kindness, or her love. That it’s time to come home, where she belongs. And that it’s over. For him and for her – it’s over.”

The dress was lifted on the breeze and, with a violent gust, tumbled into the stagnant waters of the fountain. Ned refused to watch as the water swallowed up Sansa’s bloodstained dress into its depths. He turned away just as the skies opened with a torrent of rain. The storm finally reached him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright...this wraps up the interlude. Buckle up. Things are going full speed from here. If this were a book series, the next chapter would be the beginning of the last book. We're getting there! 
> 
> As always, thank you for those who are still sticking around for this story, leaving comments, kudos, and the like :) It means more than you'll ever know.


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